^%» 


Ella 

Wheeler 
Wilcox 


James 

Brander 

Matthews 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE 


An  Authorized  Report  of  the  Proceedings 
before  The  Literary  Emergency  Court 
holden  in  and  for  The  District  of  North 
America. 

Reporter:  ?????? 

The  Bench  :  Mark  Twain,  C.  J. 
Oliver  Herford,  J. 
'  Myself,'  J. 

For  the  Prosecution : 

Charles  Battell  Loomis 


-• 


THE  LITERARY 
GUILLOTINE 


in  TAfeKWOTO/V. 

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Copyright,  1903 
by  John  Lane 


Copyright,  1902 
by  The  Reader  Publishing  Co. 

Copyright,  1903 

by  The  Reader  Publishing  Co. 

to  the  Proprietors  of  which  the  author  tenders 

acknowledgment  for  rights  of 

book-publication 


First  edition  published  Oct.,  1903 


Set  up  and  printed  by 
The  Heintzemann  Press 
Boston,  Mass.  U.  S.  A. 


TO 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


CONTENTS  vii 

I.  The    People   vs.    Richard    Harding 

Davis  i 

For  Defendant  Davis,  pro  se 

Held,  That  in  writing  exclusively  for  the 
Young  Person,  the  introduction  of  improprie- 
ties, however  veiled,  and  the  perpetration  of 
impossibilities  in  order  to  avoid  the  same,  are 
equally  criminal  and  constitute  the  same  of- 
fense. Verdict:  Guilty 

II.  James  -vs.  Eddy  35 

Infringement  of  Patent 

Held,  That  the  original  sententia.  obscura., 
containing,  as  its  name  implies,  a  palpable 
though  obfuscated  idea,  is  not  infringed  by  a 
method  of  compilation  by  which  the  idea,  if 
any,  is  placed  absolutely  beyond  the  reach  of 
discovery. 

III.  The  Mummy  and  the  Humming-bird, 

being  the  case  of  The  People  <vs.  John 
Kendrick  Bangs  and  James  Bran- 
der  Matthews  61 

Evidence  of  Larceny  of  Jokes  was  ruled 
out  on  grounds  of  public  policy,  as  tending  to 
establish  a  dangerous  precedent,  but  it  was 

Held,  That  the  fact  that  a  lack  of  humour,  if 
not  proven  to  be  that  of  others,  under  the 
above  ruling,  is  no  reason  for  acquittal ;  also 
that  the  admissions  of  a  literary  expert  in  an 
article  upon  the  art  of  writing  may  be  used 


CONTENTS  viii 

against  him  in  evidence  of  the  crime  of  un- 
justified narration. 

Verdict :  Guilty  in  the  Second  Degree 
with  recommendation  to  mercy. 

IV.  Wards  in  Chancery  87 

Upon  the  trial  of  Mary  Augusta  Ward  for  the 
commission  of  "  Eleanor  "  and  other  crimes, 

Held,  That  another  and  comparatively  inno- 
cent person  whose  arrest  is  due  merely  to  iden- 
tity of  her  surname  with  that  of  the  defendant 
may  be  dismissed  with  a  reprimand  ;  also  that 

A  literary  crime  may  be  allowed  to  go  un- 
punished in  order  to  avoid  international  com- 
plications. fJol.  Pros,  ordered  accordingly 

V.  The  Corelli-ing  of  Caine  117 

Upon  preliminary  examination  of  Marie 
Corelli  and  Hall  Caine 

Quaere,  Whether  two  defendants  charged 
with  divers  like  crimes  and  misdemeanors 
may  be  accorded  immunity  from  prosecution 
upon  the  offer  of  each  to  become  State's  Evi- 
dence against  the  other? 

Note.  On  account  of  the  rescue  of  the  pris- 
oners by  the  mob  (presumably  for  purposes 
of  its  own)  it  was  deemed  fitting  by  the  Court 
that  the  case  be  Adjourned  sine  die 

VI.  Three  of  a  Kind  143 

The  People  <v s.  VanDyke  et  a.1. 
For  all  three  Defendants          Brander  Matthews 
Sembii',    That  criticism  affords  no  criterion 


CONTENTS  ix 

for  the  lay  mind,  and  the  Court  is  powerless 
when  the  Jury  abets  the  crime.         No  Verdict 

VII.  The  Apollo-naris  Poets  175 

Upon  trial  of  Alfred  Austin,  alias  "  The 
Laureate";    Ella  Wheeler    Wilcox,   alias 
"The  Journalese  Poetess,"  et  al.f  for  a  di- 
vers-ity  of  minor  offenses, 
Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  having  been 

discharged  by  the  Court 

Held,  As  to  the  rest,  that  the  prisoners 
might  be  left  each  to  the  judgment  of  the 
others  with  a  certainty  that  all  would  re- 
ceive their  deserts,  for 

Semble',  That  Poets  cannot  conspire,  and 
it  was  Ordered  accordingly 

Verdict :  Guilty 

VIII.  Historical  Novelties  213 

Upon  a  Commission  de  lunatico  inquirendo 
for  the  purpose  of  investigating  the  mental 
condition  of  "Stephen  Brice,"  "Malcolm 
Vernon,"  "  Tom  Vanrevel,"  et  at., 

It  <vja.s  reported,  That  the  atmosphere  of 
insanity  that  pervades  Historic  Fiction  is 
not  due  to  the  characters  per  se. 

Note.  The  authors  and  the  Reading  Pub- 
lic were  not  before  the  Commission  for  in- 
vestigation. 

IX.  The  Otherwise  Men  239 

At  an  informal  sitting  in  camera  cur  adv. 
vult.,  the  question  as  to  the  identity  of  lit- 


CONTENTS  x 

erature  and  business  being  under  discussion, 
by  a  strong  majority  it  was 

Decided,  That  the  two  terms  are  insepar- 
able, interchangeable  and  unthinkable,  save 
in  conjunction;  and  it  was  further 

Decided,  That  as  a  practical  proposition 
the  reformation  of  literature  is  desired  nei- 
ther by  the  servant  girls,  editors  nor  writers, 
and  the  Court  •was  therefore  adjourned  until 
the  commencement  of  the  next  ensuing 
term. 


I.  The  People  <vs.  Richard  Har- 
ding Davis 

For  'Defendant  Davis,  pro  se 

Held,  that  in  writing  exclusively 
for  the  Young  Person,  the  introduc- 
tion of  improprieties,  however  veiled, 
and  the  perpetration  of  impossibili- 
ties in  order  to  avoid  the  same,  are 
equally  criminal  and  constitute  the 
same  offence. 

Verdict:  Guilty 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  i 

"T  TNLESS  this  unseemly  demonstration 

^-'  ceases  once  for  all,"  said  Mark  Twain, 
rising  and  glaring  out  over  the  crowded 
room,  "I  shall  order  the  court  cleared  and 
have  the  trial  conducted  behind  closed 
doors.  Besides,"  he  added,  sinking  into  his 
accustomed  drawl,  "this  is  not  a  young  la- 
dies' commencement,  despite  appearances." 
Then,  turning  to  the  nearest  policeman,  he 
said :  "Officer,  bring  in  the  prisoner." 

"Aye,  aye,  sir,"  said  the  policeman  in 
nautical  fashion,  and  he  walked  rapidly  to 
the  door  of  the  adjoining  room,  opened  it, 
and  beckoned  to  the  invisible  occupant. 
The  next  moment  a  large,  military  figure, 
encased  in  a  very  short  jacket  and  a  very 
high  collar,  appeared  in  the  doorway, 
paused  for  an  instant  like  the  king  of  beasts 
on  entering  the  arena,  and  then  walked 
rapidly  and  with  disdainful  air  to  the  pris- 
oners' pen,  facing  the  jury  benches. 

"Ah!"  went  up  in  chorus  from  all  the 
women  present;  "isn't  he  like  his  own  Van 
Bibber!" 

Richard  Harding  Davis  stood  before  us. 

It  was  the  first  sitting   of  the   Literary 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  2 

Emergency  Court,  which  had  been  created 
by  the  legislature  in  response  to  the  de- 
mands of  a  long-suffering  and  outraged 
public  for  the  trial  and  punishment  of  lit- 
erary offenders,  and  the  excitement  was  tre- 
mendous. In  view  of  the  large  female  fol- 
lowing of  the  first  prisoner  on  the  list  for 
trial,  extraordinary  police  precautions  had 
been  taken;  nevertheless,  that  very  morn- 
ing an  attempt  had  been  made  to  deliver 
him  from  jail,  which  had  very  nearly  proved 
successful.  Seventy-five  uniformed  ser- 
vants of  the  law  were  now  distributed 
throughout  the  court-room  ready  to  sup- 
press an  outbreak. 

In  virtue  of  the  powers  vested  in  him  by 
the  legislature,  the  Governor  had  appointed 
Mark  Twain,  Oliver  Herford,  and  myself 
justices  of  the  court,  with  extraordinary 
powers,  and  Charles  Battell  Loomis  prose- 
cuting officer  to  act  for  the  attorney-gen- 
eral. I  had  hesitated  to  accept  the  appoint- 
ment, fearing  lest  no  one  would  take  us 
seriously  in  view  of  the  reputation  of  my 
associates  and  of  the  prosecutor;  but  Her- 
ford had  finally  pointed  out  to  me  the  very 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  3 

material  consideration  that  unless  I  con- 
sented to  serve  I  would  infallibly  be  seized 
and  brought  to  trial  and  condemned  to  the 
guillotine  as  one  of  the  most  flagrant  offend- 
ers. This  put  a  new  face  on  the  matter. 

"It's  your  one  chance  of  immunity,  old 
man,"  he  had  said  in  discussing  the  matter 
with  me ;  "any  one  who  has  written  such 
rotten  stuff  as  you  can't  afford  to  take 
chances.  Now  with  me  it's  different " 

I  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  Did  he 
really  believe  what  he  was  saying,  or  was 
he  merely  talking  for  effect?  The  serious- 
ness of  his  expression,  however,  argued 
belief  in  his  own  words,  astounding  as  this 
may  seem. 

This  had  been  two  weeks  previously,  and 
the  interval  of  time  we  had  spent  in  waiting 
for  the  order  to  begin  our  sittings  and  in 
issuing  warrants  of  arrest.  At  one  of  our 
preliminary  meetings  we  had  drawn  up  a 
list  of  the  worst  offenders,  most  of  whom 
happened  luckily  to  be  in  New  York;  and 
now  at  the  opening  of  the  court  we  had  the 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  twenty-five  of 
the  most  notorious  delinquents  were  safe 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE 


behind  prison  bars,  beyond  the  reach  of 
pen  and  ink. 

There  had  been  stormy  scenes  between 
my  associates  and  myself,  as  neither  Mark 
Twain  nor  Herford  would  consent  to  the 
including  of  many  of  those  whom  I  felt 
that  we  could  not  conscientiously  omit ;  our 
oath  of  office  pledged  us  to  summon  before 
us  "all  writers  and  scribblers  and  their  aid- 
ers and  abettors  whom  (in  our  opinion) 
literature  would  be  better  off  without." 
Under  the  circumstances  naturally  I  wished 
to  include  the  majority  of  metropolitan  edi- 
tors and  publishers,  but  to  this  my  col- 
leagues would  not  hear. 

"Why,  I  publish  with  his  firm!"  ex- 
claimed Mark  Twain,  when  the  name  of  a 
notoriously  guilty  publisher  was  mentioned. 
"I  could  never  consent  to  his  execution." 

Similarly,  when  the  name  of  one  of  the 
most  flagrant  editors  in  the  city  was 
brought  forward,  Herford  begged  for  his 
life  on  the  ground  that  the  magazine  of  the 
editor  in  question  took  a  great  deal  of  his 
inferior  stuff  which  he  could  sell  nowhere 
else. 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  5 

"I  thought  it  was  the  other  magazines 
that  took  your  inferior  stuff,  Herford,"  in- 
nocently remarked  Loomis,  who  was  un- 
officially present  at  the  meeting. 

The  outcome  of  the  matter  was  that  we 
compromised  on  the  names  of  a  few  editors 
who  were  also  writers  and  whose  offences 
were  so  flagitious  that  there  could  be  no 
doubt  the  jury  would  find  them  guilty,  and 
thus  enable  us  to  send  them  to  the  guillo- 
tine. From  that  bourne  they  could  return 
no  manuscripts,  so  Mark  Twain  and  Her- 
ford felt  safe. 

I  was  by  no  means  satisfied,  but  better 
half  a  loaf  than  nothing.  Besides,  had  we 
not  Davis,  and  was  he  not  worth  many  edi- 
tors? 

As  this  young  Napoleon  of  literature  now 
stood  before  us  and  as  I  gazed  on  his 
mobile  and  open  countenance  and  firmly  set 
jaw,  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  he  could 
be  guilty  of  all  the  crimes  to  which  I  had 
seen  his  name  attached.  Could  this  noble 
youth  really  have  written  "Soldiers  of  For- 
tune"? The  voice  of  Loomis,  however,  re- 
called me  to  a  sense  of  the  situation. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE 


"May  it  please  the  court,"  he  was  saying, 
"your  honours  have  now  before  you  one  of 
the  most  incorrigible  offenders  of  modern 
literature;  indeed,  I  may  say,  one  of  the 
worst  literary  criminals  of  all  times.  I  feel 
it  my  duty,  therefore,  before  impanelling 
the  jury  and  calling  the  witnesses,  to  warn 
the  court  of  the  character  of  the  prisoner, 
of  his  ineradicable  tendency  to  promulgate 
articles,  stories,  and  novels  of  the  most  per- 
nicious nature,  despite  their  apparent  in- 
nocuousness.  Be  not  deceived!  Their 
harmlessness  is  specious.  He  is  corrupting 
the  youth  of  this  country.  Even  as  Phrene 
corrupted  the  youth  of  Athens " 

"Mr.  Loomis!  Mr.  Loomis!"  cried  Mark 
Twain  severely,  "you  are  forgetting  your- 
self !  Nothing  you  can  say  against  the  pris- 
oner from  a  purely  phreneological  stand- 
point can  be  too  severe,  but  your  comparison 
is  at  fault.  In  all  of  his  stuff  that  I  have  un- 
fortunately been  compelled  to  read  as  pre- 
siding officer  of  this  court,  I  have  in  vain 
looked  for  a  line  which  could  bring  the 
blush  of  shame  to  the  cheek  of  innocence, 
which  could  cause  the  young  person  to  ask 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS 


embarrassing  questions  of  her  elders. 
Though,  to  be  sure,  Mr.  Davis  holds  pecu- 
liar ideas  on  the  education  of  maidens — for 
whom,  I  believe,  he  writes  exclusively." 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Loomis 
at  the  conclusion  of  this  reprimand,  "with 
all  due  respect  to  your  honour,  I  must  never- 
theless maintain  that  your  honour  is  mis- 
taken as  to  the  moral  influence  of  the  writ- 
ings of  the  accused.  At  the  appropriate 
moment  I  intend  to  show  that  he  has  made 
use  of  several  words  in  his  writings  im- 
proper for  the  eyes  of  maidens,  as,  for  in- 
stance, 'concupiscence'  and  'propinquity.' 
And  now,  if  it  please  the  court,  we  will  pro- 
ceed with  the  trial.  Prisoner  at  the  bar, 
do  you  wish  to  hear  the  indictment  read?" 

"Most  assuredly,"  replied  Davis,  who  had 
elected  to  act  as  his  own  counsel. 

Thereupon  the  clerk  of  the  court  read  in 
a  loud  voice  the  short  but  portentous  docu- 
ment wherein  the  people  of  the  County  of 
New  York,  through  their  special  grand 
]ury,  charged  Richard  Harding  Davis  with 
commission  of  !csc  inajcste  to  the  cause  of 
letters,  which  crime,  it  was  alleged,  had 


been  committed  at  various  and  sundry 
times  within  the  said  county  through  the 
publication  of  books  and  magazine  stories 
and  articles  directly  tending  to  debase  lit- 
erature. 

As  was  to  be  expected,  Davis  entered 
the  plea  of  "not  guilty"  to  the  charge,  and 
the  impanelling  of  the  jury  was  then  be- 
gun. It  was,  of  course,  quite  irregular  for 
more  than  one  judge  to  sit  in  a  trial  by  jury, 
but  this  anomaly  was  the  outcome  of  the 
peculiar  nature  of  the  cases  before  the 
court. 

But  little  time  was  wasted  in  securing 
twelve  good  men  and  true  for  the  trial  of 
the  case,  as  of  the  forty-two  men  examined 
only  one  confessed,  blushingly,  to  having 
prejudiced  his  judgment  by  reading  a  story 
by  the  accused. 

"So  you  have  read  one  of  my  stories, 
have  you?"  said  Davis,  with  a  smile  of  as- 
surance. "Which  one  was  it?" 

"'The  King's  Jackal.'" 

"Well,  now,  in  view  of  that  fact,  I  would 
ask  if  you  believe  in  capital  punishment?" 

"More  than  ever!" 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  9 

"Peremptorily  challenged,"  announced 
the  defence. 

"Confound  it!"  muttered  the  rejected 
juryman,  as  he  stepped  down  from  the 
bench. 

The  only  other  case  worthy  of  mention 
among  those  thus  challenged  was  that  of  a 
professional  .weight-lifter,  to  whom  this 
question  was  put  by  Davis: 

"Do  you  believe  that  a  man  can  embrace 
a  girl  with  one  arm,  hold  a  mob  in  check 
with  the  other,  and  set  in  motion  with  both 
feet  simultaneously  two  boulders  to  crush 
a  revolutionary  army  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains?" 

"Not  unless  the  lady  in  question  is  strong 
enough  to  hold  him  up  off  the  ground  while 
he  does  it/'  was  the  reply. 

This,  of  course,  disqualified  him  in  the 
eyes  of  the  accused. 

The  jury,  when  finally  secured,  was  made 
up  as  follows:  one  plumber,  two  cab- 
drivers,  two  shop-keepers,  one  contractor, 
one  machinist,  one  ex-army  officer,  two 
clerks,  one  life-insurance  agent,  and  one 
capitalist. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  10 

Vigorous  protest  was  made  by  Davis 
against  the  make-up  of  the  jury,  on  the 
ground  that  with  but  two  exceptions  they 
were  "in  trade,"  and  that  he  was  entitled  to 
be  tried  by  his  peers.  But  as  he  had  ex- 
hausted his  challenges,  he  was  forced  to  ac- 
cept them,  willy-nilly.  The  trial  proper  then 
began. 

The  first  witness  called  was  Bridget 
Flynn,  and  she  proved  to  be  a  large,  stout 
Irish  woman  who  said  she  took  in  washing. 
Her  testimony  was  rather  long  and  ram- 
bling, but  the  gist  of  it  was  that  since  her 
daughter,  Mary  Ann,  had  taken  to  reading 
the  prisoner's  books  she  spent  all  her  time 
studying  the  peerage  and  talking  about 
"dooks"  and  lords  and  ladies  and  practising 
up  what  she  was  going  to  say  to  the  Prince 
of  "Whales"  when  she  met  him. 

"And  her  ingagemint  with  Pat  Nolan, 
the  Broadway  policeman,  she  broke  off," 
declared  the  witness,  under  stress  of  emo- 
tion, "because  he  was  only  six  feet  four 
instid  of  seven  foot  tall  and  hadn't  played 
on  the  college  football  team  or  even  so 
much  as  eloped  with  a  princess.  'Ma,'  she 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  n 

says  to  me  only  yisterday,  'I  shall  niver 
marry,'  she  says;  'I've  found  me  ideal  only 
in  the  literature  of  Mr.  Davis.  He  give  me 
me  standards,  and  nothin'  in  loife,  I  find, 
comes  up  to  their  shoulders.  I'm  doomed 
to  celibrity.'  Oh,  me  poor  chile !  And  the 
sassy  way  she  talks  to  her  father,  too,  it 
would  coddle  your  blood.  'You're  a  van- 
dal,' she  says  to  him,  'you  care  nothin'  for 
literature.  I  belave  you'd  ate  bacon  on 
Shakespeare's  birthday.'  Oh,  me  pore 
chile,  me  pore  chile!" 

Mrs.  Flynn's  grief  was  touching,  and  the 
effect  of  her  testimony  upon  her  hearers  was 
evident. 

"Do  you  wish  to  cross-examine  her,  Mr. 
Davis?"  asked  Mark  Twain,  with  a  break 
in  his  voice,  when  she  had  so  far  recovered 
herself  as  only  to  sniffle. 

"No,"  said  the  prisoner,  shaking  his  head. 
Evidently  he  saw  that  the  sooner  Mrs. 
Flynn  got  out  of  the  jury's  sight  the  better 
for  him.  Even  the  women  present  were 
affected. 

The  next  witness  was  the  President  of 
the  Young  Ladies'  Select  Boarding-Schools 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  12 

Association  of  America.  Her  testimony 
against  the  prisoner  was  to  the  effect  that 
since  his  advent  in  the  literary  world  the 
gas  bills  of  the  various  institutions  in  the 
association  had  increased  in  alarming  de- 
gree, and  that  this  had  been  traced  directly 
to  the  reading  of  his  books  after  hours. 

"If  this  continues,"  said  the  witness  trag- 
ically, "the  boarding-schools  throughout 
the  country  will  have  to  close  their  doors; 
we  cannot  stand  the  expense." 

"Now,  Mrs.  McClacken,"  said  Davis,  tak- 
ing the  witness  in  hand  at  the  close  of  her 
direct  testimony,  "I  should  like  to  ask  you 
one  or  two  questions.  Have  you  ever  read 
any  of  my  stories?" 

"I'm  not  quite  certain,"  was  the  hesitat- 
ing reply;  "are  you  the  author  of  'Davies' 
Legendre'?" 

"Madam,"  said  Davis,  severely,  "I  am 
grieved  that  you  should  suggest  such  a 
thing;  in  my  writings  I  carefully  avoid  all 
mention  of  sex  or  gender.  Besides,  the 
book  of  which  you  speak  happens  to  be  a 
text-book  of  geometry,  not  a  work  of  fic- 
tion. My  writings  deal  with  life,  not,  to  be 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  13 


sure,  as  it  is,  but  as  I  conceive  it  should  be 
presented  to  the  minds  of  maidens  through 
those  glorious  channels  of  purity — the 
magazines  of  the  country.  But  I  am  wan- 
dering from  the  question.  You  admit  that 
you  have  never  read  any  of  my  books,  yet 
you  come  here  and  testify  against  me. 
Does  that  strike  you  as  fair?" 

"I  have  nothing  against  you,  Mr.  Davis," 
replied  the  President  of  the  Young  Ladies' 
Select  Boarding-Schools  Association  of 
America;  "y°u  seem  to  be  a  nice  gentle- 
manly young  man — but  the  gas  bills,  what 
am  I  to  do  about  them?" 

"Send  them  to  me,  madam,  and  I  will 
pay  them,"  was  the  magniloquent  reply, 
and  there  was  a  suppressed  flutter  of  ap- 
plause. "I  have  finished  with  the  witness," 
he  announced,  turning  to  the  court,  and  he 
resumed  his  seat  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
upper  left-hand  corner  of  the  cornice. 

Certainly  he  understood  the  value  of  the 
theatrical  moment:  by  this  brilliant  stroke 
he  had  regained  in  the  minds  of  his  female 
admirers  all  the  ground  which  the  testi- 
mony of  Mrs.  Flynn  had  cost  him — "send 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  14 

me  the  bills  and  I  will  pay  them !"  It  was 
magnificent. 

In  the  meantime  the  witness  had  beck- 
oned Loomis  to  her  side,  and  there  had  en- 
sued an  earnest  whispered  conversation  be- 
tween them.  Returning  to  his  place, 
Loomis  announced  that  the  President  of 
the  Boarding-Schools  Association  desired 
to  withdraw  her  testimony. 

"But  for  what  reason?"  asked  Mark 
Twain,  in  astonishment. 

"May  it  please  the  court,  she  says  that 
after  having  met  Mr.  Davis  she  no  longer 
blames  the  girls  for  sitting  up  to  read  his 
books;  she  intends  to  do  it  herself." 

"This  is  nonsense,"  cried  Mark  Twain, 
sternly;  "testimony  cannot  be  withdrawn. 
Proceed  with  the  trial,  Mr.  Loomis." 

"You  may  retire,  madam,"  said  the  prose- 
cuting attorney,  addressing  the  witness. 

"May  I  not  remain  in  the  room,  Mr.  Law- 
yer? Oh,  I  should  so  love  to  do  so!" 

"Yes ;  I  see  no  objection  if  you  can  find 
a  place." 

This  difficulty,  however,  was  easily  over- 
come, as  room  was  immediately  made  for 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  15 


her  between  two  fashionably  dressed  girls 
on  the  front  bench.  As  she  seated  herself 
one  of  her  neighbours  silently  slipped  a  book 
into  her  hand.  From  where  I  sat  I  could 
read  the  title — "Princess  Aline." 

"Now,  may  it  please  the  court,"  said 
Loomis,  when  quiet  had  been  restored,  "al- 
though there  are  still  a  number  of  wit- 
nesses waiting  to  be  called,  I  have  decided 
to  dispense  with  their  testimony — at  least 
for  the  present.  They  are  unfortunately 
women,  and  I  find  in  this  case  women  are 
not  to  be  relied  on.  If  your  honours  please, 
therefore,  I  will  place  the  prisoner  himself 
on  the  stand  without  further  delay.  That 
is,  if  he  is  willing  to  testify." 

"Certainly  I  will  go  on  the  stand,"  said 
Davis,  and  in  obedience  to  the  direction  of 
a  court  officer  he  stepped  up  into  the  little 
witness-box.  Despite  his  jaunty,  confident 
manner,  I  detected  a  furtive,  frightened 
look  in  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  at  the  court 
and  at  Loomis's  melancholy  countenance. 
Could  it  be  that  the  possibility  of  convic- 
tion had  at  last  come  home  to  him? 

"Now,  Mr.  Davis,"  said  Loomis,  address- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  iG 

ing  the  prisoner,  "I  hold  in  my  hand  a  book 
which  is  called  'Soldiers  of  Fortune,'  and 
which  purports  to  come  from  your  pen. 
Did  you  write  it  unaided  and  of  your  own 
will?" 

"Did  I  write  it  of  my  own  free  will? — 
Of  course  I  did!"  was  the  indignant  reply. 
"Who  else  do  you  think  could  have  written 
it?" 

"Nobody,  Mr.  Davis,  nobody.  I  know 
of  no  one  capable  of  it  but  you,  unless  it 
be  Laura  Jean  Libby.  Still,  even  she  hasn't 
your  touch." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  accused,  inclining 
his  head. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  replied  Loomis,  bow- 
ing in  return.  "I  simply  wanted,  you  see, 
Mr.  Davis,  to  have  your  admitted  author- 
ship of  the  book  as  part  of  the  record,  since 
'Soldiers  of  Fortune'  is  one  of  the  principal 
counts  against  you.  Now,  I  would  like  to 
ask  you  one  or  two  questions;  perhaps 
there  may  be  mitigating  circumstances 
attending  this  crime  of  which  we  are  igno- 
rant." 

"I  appeal  to  the  protection  of  the  court," 


cried  the  prisoner,  turning  to  the  presiding 
judge,  "against  the  practice  of  the  prosecu- 
tion to  speak  of  'Soldiers  of  Fortune'  as  a 
crime." 

"Prayer  denied,"  said  Mark  Twain,  with- 
out an  instant's  hesitation.  "Proceed  with 
the  examination." 

"Well,"  continued  Loomis,  "I  shall  take 
but  little  of  the  court's  time  by  going  more 
deeply  into  'Soldiers  of  Fortune.'  Indeed, 
it  has  occurred  to  me  that  perhaps  the  sim- 
plest and  quickest  way  might  be  to  have 
the  book  read  aloud  privately  to  the  mem- 
bers of  the  jury,  so  that  they  can  form " 

"With  your  honour's  permission,"  cried 
the  foreman,  springing  to  his  feet,  "as 
spokesman  of  this  jury  I  must  vigorously 
protest  against  this  injustice.  We  are 
peaceful,  inoffensive  citizens,  who  are  sac- 
rificing our  time  and  interests  to  the  state, 
yet  here  it  is  proposed  to  force  us  to  listen 
to  'Soldiers  of  Fortune.'  We  throw  our- 
selves upon  the  mercy  of  the  court  to  pro- 
tect us  against  this  cruel  and  unusual  pun- 
ishment." 

The  man  sat  down  amid  the  suppressed 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  18 


applause  of  all  the  men  in  the  room  and 
protesting  hisses  from  a  number  of  the 
women. 

"Order  in  the  court!" 

"What  do  you  think  about  this  point?" 
asked  Mark  Twain,  leaning  over  and  ad- 
dressing me  in  a  whisper. 

"I  agree  with  the  foreman,"  I  said;  "we 
have  no  right  to  put  men  to  the  torture. 
Have  you  ever  read  the  book  yourself?" 

A  half-smile  flitted  across  his  face. 

"I  read  the  first  chapter,"  he  said,  "and 
the  next  morning  my  valet  had  appendi- 
citis." 

"Ask  Herford  what  he  thinks,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"We  once  had  a  horse  in  our  family," 
said  Herford,  irrelevantly,  in  reply  to  Mark 
Twain's  question,  "and  the  doctor  said  it 
was  necessary  to  knock  him  in  the  head  to 
end  his  sufferings.  We  did  it,  and  the 
horse  jumped  up  well.  Which  goes  to 
show  that  you  can't  tell  what  effect  the 
book  might  have  on  these  men." 

Having  received  our  advice,  Mark  Twain 
delivered  the  ruling  of  the  court. 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  19 

"In  view  of  the  appeal  of  the  foreman," 
he  said,  "and  of  the  fact  that  one  of  the 
jurymen  has  heart  disease,  we  have  decided 
not  to  compel  the  jury  to  hear  the  book." 

A  deep  sigh  of  relief  went  up  from  the 
twelve  unfortunates  at  the  narrowness  of 
their  escape. 

"May  it,  then,  please  the  court,"  contin- 
ued Loomis,  "we  will  rest  content  with  the 
prisoner's  admitted  authorship  of  'Soldiers 
of  Fortune,'  and  proceed  to  the  next  count. 
Mr.  Davis,  how  many  stories  have  you 
written?" 

"I  couldn't  say — a  hundred,  perhaps." 

"And  you  received  pay  for  them?" 

"Why,  of  course;  you  don't  think  I  write 
for  nothing,  do  you?" 

"No,  but  I  hardly  expected  you  so  easily 
to  admit  having  obtained  money  under  false 
pretences.  However,  I  shan't  press  that 
point.  Now,  I  have  here  a  collection  of 
stories  purporting  to  be  by  you,  called  'Van 
Bibber  and  Others/  and  I  will  open  it  at 
random — thus.  Ah,  I  see  I  have  turned  to 
'A  Recruit  at  Christmas.'  You  wrote  that, 
did  you  not?" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  20 

--^-rffc'AA,->-l^k^-^-*-^*-^-^-SAAi^        •*• 

"Yes,  but  that  was  years  ago.  It  isn't 
fair  to  hold  a  man  responsible  for  the  indis- 
cretion of  his  youth." 

"That  is  true,  Mr.  Davis,  but  unfortu- 
nately I  am  forced  to  remind  you  that  the 
statute  of  limitations  does  not  apply  to 
crimes  punishable  by  death.  To  return, 
therefore,  to  the  story  under  consideration. 
Did  you  ever  enlist  in  the  navy?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Did  you  ever  witness  an  enlistment?" 

"No,  sir,  but " 

"One  moment  now,  don't  interrupt; 
you'll  have  plenty  of  chance  to  defend 
yourself  later  on.  No  doubt  you  were 
going  to  say  that  some  one  had  told  you 
about  an  enlistment.  Well,  unfortunately 
he  told  you  wrong.  In  the  first  place,  en- 
listments are  not  taken  at  Christmas  or  on 
holidays;  and  in  the  second  place,  they  are 
not  conducted  as  you  have  described.  The 
enlisting-officer  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
physical  examination,  which  is  made  by  a 
doctor  of  the  service  in  his  private  bureau, 
and  the  applicant  is  made  to  take  off  every 
stitch  of  clothing  for  the  ordeal.  Now,  why 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  21 


didn't  you  find  out  about  the  modus  oper- 
and i  and  describe  it  as  it  really  is?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Loomis,"  cried  Davis,  blush- 
ing, "how  can  you  ask  me  such  a  thing? 
Do  you  think  I  would  have  a  naked  man  in 
one  of  my  stories?" 

"Ah!"  came  approvingly  from  all  sides, 
the  voice  of  the  President  of  the  Young 
Ladies'  Boarding-Schools  Association 
sounding  above  all  others.  Glowing  looks 
of  approval  were  cast  on  this  courageous 
protagonist  of  purity.  Unfortunately  for 
the  dignity  of  the  occasion,  one  of  the  jur- 
ors burst  out  laughing  and  nearly  rolled  off 
the  bench  in  his  merriment. 

"Order  in  the  court!" 

"Excuse  me,"  cried  that  member  of  the 
jury  who  had  been  an  officer  in  the  United 
States  army,  "but  may  I  ask  a  question?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Mark  Twain. 

"Is  this  prisoner  the  man  who  wrote 
'Ranson's  Folly'?" 

"Yes;  why  do  you  ask?" 

"Well,  I  read  it  the  other  day,  but  I'd 
forgotten  the  name  of  the  author.  I  just 
wanted  to  be  sure  that  I  v/as  looking  at  the 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          22 

man  who  made  an  officer  hold  up  a  stage 
with  a  pair  of  shears  and  then  be  let  off 
without  trial,  just  because  some  other  fel- 
low confessed  to  having  committed  another 
hold-up.  I  tell  you,  it  takes  genius  to 
write  about  something  you  don't  know 
anything  about,  and  make  a  non-commis- 
sioned officer  address  his  superior  as  'the 
lieutenant.'  It  made  me  feel  homesick  for 
the  old  life  which  he  describes  so  brilliantly, 
and  I  sent  the  book  out  to  my  old  mess  at 
Fort  Leavenworth.  This  is  the  telegram  I 
got  back  from  them  a  week  later:  'Ask  the 
author  of  "Ranson's  Folly"  where  the  devil 
he  learned  it  all.'  " 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the 
room. 

"I  would  beg  the  gentleman  who  has  just 
spoken,"  at  last  said  Davis,  "to  bear  one 
fact  in  mind:  that  portion  of  society  for 
which  I  write  are  practically  all  studying, 
with  the  help  of  a  dictionary,  'L'Abbe  Con- 
stantin,'  and  in  that  the  soldiers  always  ad- 
dress their  superiors  as  mon  lieutenant. 
Moreover,  I  could  not  allow  Ranson  to  be 
court-martialled,  as  it  would  have  made  the 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  23 

story  too  long  and  would  have  displeased 
many  of  my  readers ;  they  do  not  like  a 
hero  to  be  placed  in  embarrassing  positions. 
I  feel  that  I  have  answered  the  strictures 
of  my  critic  fully  and  satisfactorily.  I  leave 
the  decision  with  the  public  and  with — pos- 
terity." 

Certainly  if  the  women  present  were  the 
public  meant  by  the  prisoner  there  could 
be  no  doubt  that  his  explanation  was  emi- 
nently satisfactory.  Despite  the  frequent 
warnings,  little  bursts  of  applause  were 
heard  on  all  sides.,  and  not  until  the  court- 
officers  had  repeatedly  thundered  "Order  in 
the  court!"  was  quiet  at  length  restored. 
Mark  Twain  was  evidently  on  the  point  of 
ordering  the  room  cleared,  and  only  the 
promptness  of  Loomis  in  resuming  the  ex- 
amination of  the  prisoner  prevented  him. 

"Now,  Mr.  Davis,"  said  Loomis  slowly, 
impressively,  "before  this  interruption  oc- 
curred you  indignantly  repudiated  the  sug- 
gestion that  you  should  have  caused  one  of 
your  heroes  to  undress  in  public.  I  am 
sorry  to  be  compelled  to  state  that  in  many 
of  your  stories  you  are  guilty  of  much  more 


24 


serious  offences  than  this.  You  pose  as  a 
moralist,  but  I  hereby  charge  you  with  pro- 
mulgating literature  of  the  most  pernicious 
character.  I  will  tear  the  mask  from  your 
face.  Officer,  hand  me  that  book." 

The  excitement  in  the  room  was  now  in- 
tense; men  and  women  leaned  forward  in 
their  seats,  breathlessly  awaiting  the  next 
move.  Even  Mark  Twain  had  straightened 
up  and  had  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  prosecuting 
attorney.  For  a  moment  there  was  silence, 
as  Loomis  took  the  book  from  the  police- 
man and  held  it  in  his  hand. 

"Did  you  write  this,  Mr.  Davis?"  he 
asked  at  length,  "  'A  Year  from  a  Repor- 
ter's Note-book'?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  prisoner. 

"Well,  I  turn  to  page  264,  and  read  this 
description  of  the  Queen's  Diamond  Jubi- 
lee: 'Churches  built  huge  structures  over 
their  graveyards  that  tov/ered  almost  to 
the  steeples,  and  theatres,  hotels,  restau- 
rants, and  shops  of  every  description  were 
so  covered  with  scaffoldings  that  it  was 
impossible  to  distinguish  a  bookstore  from 
a  public  house.'  Mr.  Davis,  I  will  ask  you 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  25 

only  one  question  regarding  this  passage: 
Why  did  you  want  to  distinguish  a  book- 
store from  a  public  house?" 

"Well,  well,  I  don't  — know  — "  be- 
gan the  accused,  stammering,  "one  natu- 
rally notices  such  things,  don't  you  know." 

"I  see,"  said  Loomis,  "but  you  should 
have  remembered  for  whom  you  were  writ- 
ing. By  that  passage  you  may  have  started 
some  tender  youth  upon  the  downward 
path,  or  have  caused  a  gentle  maid  to  with- 
draw her  name  from  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  Did 
you  think  of  that?" 

Davis  paused  before  replying. 

"I  solemnly  declare/'  he  said  at  last,  "that 
when  I  wrote  those  words  I  did  not  realize 
their  insidious  malignity.  Far  rather  would 
I  have  struck  my  hand  from  my  wrist.  It 
is  not  fair,  however,  to  condemn  a  man  for 
a  single  fault  unwittingly  committed.  I 
defy  the  prosecution  to  point  to  another  im- 
proper paragraph  in  all  my  writings." 

"You  do?  Well,  now,  Mr.  Davis,  I  have 
here  'Princess  Aline.'  You  acknowledge 
having  written  that  book,  I  suppose?" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  26 

''Certainly,  there  is  not  a  single  word  to 
be  ashamed  of  in  it." 

"You  think  so.  On  page  8,  however,  I 
find  this  statement  put  into  the  mouth  of 
your  hero — unfortunately  I  am  compelled 
to  read  it  aloud  despite  the  presence  of 
ladies — '  I  am  very  conscientious,  and  I  con- 
sider it  my  duty  to  go  so  far  with  every 
woman  I  meet  as  to  be  able  to  learn 
whether  she  is  or  is  not  the  one,  and  the  sad 
result  is  that  I  am  like  a  man  who  follows 
the  hounds  but  is  never  in  at  the  death.' 
Have  you  anything  to  say  to  that,  Mr. 
Davis?" 

The  prisoner  shook  his  head. 

"Nothing,"  he  said  feebly,  "except  that 
I  regret  it  deeply.  The  recollection  of  that 
passage  has  kept  me  awake  many  a  night. 
Ah,  if  you  but  knew  how  I  have  tried  to  for- 
get it!" 

The  silence  in  the  room  was  deathlike 
until  Loomis  continued: 

"This  is  a  painful  subject,  and  I  willingly 
abandon  it.  Before  doing  so,  however,  I 
must  call  attention  to  one  other  impro- 
priety of  which  the  accused  has  been  guilty. 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  27 

On  page  57  of  'Ranson's  Folly'  you  cause 
an  infinitive  to  do  the  double  split  in  most 
barefaced  manner,  at  the  same  time  that 
you  make  a  young  lady,  so  far  as  I  can  un- 
derstand the  sentence,  attempt  to  strike  a 
gentleman  below  the  belt.  Here  is  the  sen- 
tence: 'Her  only  reply  was  to  at  once  start 
for  his  quarters  with  his  breakfast  in  a 
basket.'  Think  of  the  effect  of  this  upon 
the  school-girls  throughout  the  country! 
But  enough  of  this  subject.  It  is  too  pain- 
ful to  be  pursued  further.  You  may  step 
down,  Mr.  Davis. 

"May  it  please  the  court,  I  have  now  fin- 
ished with  the  prisoner,  as  I  do  not  consider 
it  necessary  to  waste  further  time  on  a  case 
which  is  really  so  unimportant.  Enough 
has  been  shown,  I  feel  sure,  to  convince  this 
intelligent  jury  that  he  merits  no  consider- 
ation at  their  hands.  He  has  shown  none 
for  us,  for  he  has  published  over  ten  books, 
one  of  which  is  'Soldiers  of  Fortune.' 
Think  of  it!  I  feel  certain,  therefore,  that 
the  members  of  the  jury  will  do  their  duty 
and  bring  in  the  only  verdict  possible  in 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  28 

-A. — -*-^^--*--*-^^--^-^^^^-*--^^-^- 

view  of  the  testimony,  that,  namely,  of  Icsc 
majcstc  to  the  cause  of  letters." 

Thereupon  Loomis  resumed  his  seat. 
Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard.  Even  the 
women  in  the  room  were  speechless.  To 
think  that  their  idol  should  have  had  feet 
of  clay  all  the  time!  Suddenly  a  sob  came 
from  the  President  of  the  Young  Ladies' 
Select  Boarding-Schools  Association  of 
America,  then  another  followed  in  the  rear 
of  the  room,  and  in  a  few  moments  half  the 
room  was  in  tears.  But  the  eyes  of  the  men 
were  dry  and  hard,  and  the  faces  of  the  jury 
were  stern  and  set — at  their  hands  no  len- 
iency was  to  be  expected. 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar,"  said  Mark  Twain, 
when  the  sobbing  had  somewhat  subsided, 
"have  you  anything  to  say  in  your  own  de- 
fence before  I  charge  the  jury?" 

Davis  started.  I  had  read  his  thoughts: 
he  had  been  dreaming  of  the  happy,  inno- 
cent days  of  youth  while  he  was  still  a  spe- 
cial student  at  the  Johns  Hopkins  Univer- 
sity, before  he  had  taken  to  writing.  No 
man,  I  believe,  ever  sinks  so  low  that  he  is 
incapable  of  remorse. 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  29 

"Your  honour,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I 
shall  not  make  a  speech,  although  I  in- 
tended so  to  do  up  to  within  a  very  short 
time.  Since  I  entered  this  room  a  change 
has  taken  place  in  me;  my  eyes  have  been 
opened  to  the  real  wrong  I  have  done  to 
the  cause  of  letters.  Let  the  law  take  its 
course,  I  shall  not  murmur.  I  only  say,  I 
am  sorry  for  the  past.  Perhaps,  however, 
my  fate  will  serve  to  warn  future  writers 
for  young  girls  of  the  dangers  of  the  path. 
Had  I  it  to  do  over  again — But  no,  who 
can  tell?  Perhaps  I  should  do  the  same." 

I  confess,  as  I  listened  to  this  frank  con- 
fession, pity  for  the  man  rose  in  my  breast, 
despite  my  better  judgment.  But  then 
came  thoughts  of  "Soldiers  of  Fortune"  and 
of  the  girls'  boarding-schools  throughout 
the  country  and  my  heart  hardened.  No 
punishment  was  too  severe  for  this  man. 

"Mr.  Loomis,"  said  Mark  Twain  to  the 
prosecuting  attorney,  "it  is  your  privilege 
to  close." 

"I  waive  that  right,  sir." 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  Mark  Twain 
then  said  in  impressive  manner,  "you  have 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          30 

heard  the  evidence  in  this  case ;  it  is  for  you 
to  decide  on  it.  Is  this  man  guilty  or  not 
guilty  as  charged?  You  have  only  to  pass 
on  questions  of  fact:  we  will  apply  the  law 
to  your  findings.  You  will  now  retire  until 
you  have  reached  a  verdict.  Conduct  the 
jurymen  to  their  room." 

"With  your  honour's  permission, "said  the 
foreman,  rising,  "I  would  beg  for  a  mo- 
ment's delay." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Thereupon  the  foreman  leaned  over  and 
began  to  whisper  with  his  associates.  This 
continued  for,  perhaps,  half  a  minute,  when 
he  rose  again. 

"It  will  not  be  necessary  for  us  to  retire," 
he  announced. 

"Have  you  reached  a  verdict,  gentlemen 
of  the  jury?"  asked  the  clerk  of  the  court. 

"We  have,"  replied  the  foreman. 

"Prisoner,  look  upon  the  jury ;  jury,  look 
upon  the  prisoner.  Do  you  find  this  pris- 
oner guilty  or  not  guilty  of  the  charges  in 
the  indictment?" 

"Guilty,"  announced  the  foreman  in  a 
loud  voice. 


RICHARD  HARDING  DAVIS  31 

For  a  moment  it  looked  as  though  Davis 
were  about  to  fall,  but  he  recovered  him- 
self and  braced  his  shoulders  for  the  ordeal 
still  to  follow. 

"Prisoner,"  said  Mark  Twain  impressive- 
ly, "you  have  heard  the  verdict.  Have  you 
aught  to  say  why  sentence  should  not  be 
passed  on  you?" 

Davis  shook  his  head,  unable  to  speak. 
Mark  Twain  turned  to  me  and  I  nodded, 
and  Herford  did  likewise  in  answer  to  his 
mute  question.  Mark  Twain  then  deliv- 
ered the  sentence  of  the  court  as  follows : 

"Richard  Harding  Davis,  after  a  fair  and 
just  trial  at  the  hands  of  your  peers,  you 
have  been  found  guilty  of  the  worst  crime 
which  a  writer  can  commit,  that,  namely, 
of  Icse  uwjcstc  to  the  cause  of  letters. 
It  is,  therefore,  the  decision  of  this  court 
that  you  be  led  from  this  room  and  confined 
by  yourself  with  a  set  of  Balzac's  works 
accessible  to  hand,  so  that  you  may  be  given 
a  chance  to  see  how  a  man  writes,  and  that 
between  sunrise  and  sunset  two  weeks  from 
to-day  you  be  taken  to  the  place  of  execu- 
tion, and  there,  in  the  presence  of  the  proper 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE           32 


officials  and  witnesses,  your  literary  head 
be  struck  from  your  shoulders.  Remove 
the  prisoner." 

The  nearest  policeman  stepped  to  Davis's 
side  and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder.  With 
a  start,  he  turned  and  looked  at  the  man. 

"Come  with  me." 

Silently  he  obeyed,  and  with  bowed  head, 
as  though  in  a  dream,  he  followed  his  guar- 
dian toward  the  door  from  which  a  short 
hour  previously  he  had  issued  so  defiantly. 
On  all  sides  sobs  were  heard,  but  no  motion 
to  rescue  the  condemned  man  was  made,  as 
we  had  feared  might  be  the  case:  his  ex- 
posure had  been  too  complete  for  the  ves- 
tige of  a  doubt  as  to  his  true  literary  char- 
acter to  remain  even  in  the  mind  of  the 
President  of  the  Young  Ladies'  Select 
Boarding-Schools  Association  of  America. 
The  tears  were  for  a  fallen  idol.  As  he  dis- 
appeared through  the  door,  Herford  leaned 
over  and  said: 

"There's  only  one  trouble  about  carrying 
out  that  sentence :  how  the  deuce  are  you 
going  to  chop  off  the  literary  head  of  a  man 
who  hasn't  one?" 


II.   James  to.  Eddy 

Infringement  of  Patent 
Held,  That  the  original  senientia. 
obscura,  containing,  as  its  name  im- 
plies, a  palpable  though  obfuscated 
idea,  is  not  infringed  by  a  method 
of  compilation  by  which  the  idea, 
if  any,  is  placed  absolutely  beyond 
the  reach  of  discovery. 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  35 

I  read  and  read,  and  then  I  am  in  pain, 
And  know  that  I've  received  a  mental  strain; 
And  yet  in  every  word  I  feel  the  truth, 
But  do  not  understand  one  word,  forsooth. 

THE  mistake  of  Henry  James  lay  in  at- 
tacking Mrs.  Eddy  in  the  first  place — 
evidently,  he  did  not  realize  what  he  was 
going  up  against.  But,  as  Herford  re- 
marked, rolling  stones  rush  in  where  angels 
fear  to  tread. 

Strictly  speaking,  the  Literary  Emergen- 
cy Court  was  without  jurisdiction  in  civil 
suits,  but  in  the  matter  of  James  versus 
Eddy  for  infringement  of  patent,  we  had 
felt  called  upon  to  act,  owing  to  the  refusal 
of  the  ordinary  courts  to  have  anything  to 
do  with  so  disgraceful  a  proceeding. 

'  'The  genius  of  woman  shrinks  from  con- 
troversy with  a  knave  or  a  fool,'  "  quoted 
Mark  Twain  from  the  defendant's  wonder- 
ful chapter  on  "Marriage,"  while  privately 
discussing  with  Herford  and  myself  the  ad- 
visability of  hearing  the  case — "that  can 
hardly  be  called  'civil,'  can  it?  What  do  you 
think  about  the  matter,  Herford?" 

"I'll  ask  you  a  riddle,"  was  the  irrelevant 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          36 


reply — "what  is  the  difference  between 
Mother  Eddy  and  a  patent  chewing-gum 
slot  machine?" 

"I  see  considerable  resemblance,"  said  the 
presiding  judge,  "but  no  difference  worth 
speaking  of.  However,  what  is  the  differ- 
ence?" 

"In  the  case  of  the  slot  machine,"  said 
Herford,  "you  put  in  your  penny  and  you 
get  your  science  and  dyspepsia;  while  in 
the  other  case  you  put  in  your  'eagle'  and 
get  your  'Science  and  Health.'  " 

"I  must  insist,  Herford,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  "that  you  have  mistaken  a  resem- 
blance for  an  intrinsic  difference — in  the 
one  case  you  get  the  //////'  frntti  of  the  con- 
fectioners, and  in  the  other  the  tntti  fnrfti 
of  the  philosophers;  they  are  equally  indi- 
gestible. However,  the  question  before  us 
is  whether  we  may  properly  hear  the  pres- 
ent case.  What  is  your  opinion?" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I  am  convinced  there  is 
many  a  woman  with  a  soft  spot  in  her  brain 
for  Mrs.  Eddy,  and  by  hearing  this  case  we 
shall  certainly  injure  the  sale  of  our  own 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  37 

books.  Still,  I  say  go  ahead  with  it.  What's 
your  advice,  Herford?" 

"To  speak  honestly,"  was  the  reply,  "I 
don't  believe  in  robbing  Mary  to  pay  James. 
Still,  I  am  anxious  to  get  at  the  justice  of 
the  affair,  so  I  vote  to  hear  the  case." 

As  a  result  we  were  now  awaiting  the 
opening  of  the  famous  trial. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Loomis, 
who  had  been  retained  as  counsel  by  Mr. 
James,  rising  at  the  conclusion  of  the  pre- 
liminaries, "this  is  a  suit  brought  by  the 
complainant,  Henry  James,  Jr.,  against  the 
defendant,  one  Mary  Baker  G.  Eddy,  author 
of  the  'Science  of  Wealth,'  for  infringe- 
ment of  his  patent  obscure  sentence — " 

"What's  that,  Mr.  Loomis?"  cried  Mark 
Twain — -"his  patent  what?" 

"Patent  obscure  sentence,  your  honor — 
the  Henry  James  patent  obscure  sentence. 
It's  guaranteed  to  resist  the  most  penetrat- 
ing intellect  known.  Some  of  the  greatest 
men  of  history  live  in  a  single  achievement: 
Sir  Thomas  More  gave  a  cup  of  water  to  a 
dying  soldier,  Gray  wrote  the  'Elegy  in  a 
Country  Churchyard,'  Blanco  White  a  son- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          38 

_-i-_     ~^_     v^  _,-! .__  .-I  —^.2;  —"'^L • -^ -- -^ -—-  A-~  — ^i:— -  "'-•--  ^  ---^-      ^-  _  --*v__  . •• 

net  on  night,  Eli  Whitney  invented  the  cot- 
ton-gin, and  Henry  James  the  patent  ob- 
scure sentence.  It  is  a  question  which  of 
them  has  placed  humanity  under  the  heavi- 
est obligation.  However,  it  is  not  my  inten- 
tion to  give  a  lecture  on  history;  all  that  I 
ask  for  my  client  is  protection  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  the  invention,  on  the  perfecting  of 
which  he  has  spent  a  lifetime.  For,  unlike 
Minerva,  the  obscure  sentence  did  not 
spring  full-armed  and  articulate  from  the 
mind  which  conceived  it.  No,  like  the  'pos- 
sum, it  came  incompletely  developed  into 
the  world,  requiring  a  period  of  quasi  post- 
natal gestation.  May  it  please  the  court — " 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Loomis,"  interrupted 
Mark  Twain,  "where  did  you  learn  your 
medicine?" 

"Your  honour,  I  have  read  'Science  and 
Health,'  so  I  know  all  about  everything — 
save  science  and  health." 

"Ah,  I  see!   Pray,  continue,  Mr.  Loomis." 

Mrs.  Eddy  stirred  uneasily  in  her  seat 
and  leaned  over  and  whispered  with  her 
attorney. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  continued  the 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  39 

sheriff-counsellor,  "I  shall  not  take  up 
further  time  with  introductory  remarks. 
With  the  court's  permission,  therefore,  I 
shall  put  my  client  on  the  stand." 

The  presiding  judge  signifying  his  ap- 
proval, the  complainant  walked  to  the  wit- 
ness-chair and  took  oath  to  speak  the  truth 
and  nothing  but  the  truth. 

"In  good,  commonplace  English,  now, 
Mr.  James,"  said  Mark  Twain — "no  patent 
obscure  sentences  for  the  present,  please." 

"My  aim  shall  be  to  achieve  the  centrum 
of  perspicuity  with  the  missile  of  speech," 
was  the  concise  reply,  "propelled,  as  in  the 
case  of  truth's  greatest  protagonists,  by  the 
dynamic  force  of  exegetical  insistence, 
eventuating  in  unobfuscated  concepts." 

"Well,  Mr.  James,"  said  Mark  Twain  in- 
dulgently, "if  you  stick  to  plain,  everyday 
English  like  that,  the  court  has  no  kick 
coming.  Proceed  with  the  examination, 
Mr.  Loomis." 

"Now,  Mr.  James,"  said  Loomis,  "I  should 
like  to  ask  you  a  few  questions.  You  were 
born  in  America,  I  believe?" 

"By  the  irony  of  fate." 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          40 

"And  you  live  in  England?" 

"By  the  compensation  of  events." 

"Will  you  tell  the  court  why  you  left 
America?" 

"Because  it  is  the  home  of  the  obvious." 

"The  home  of  the  obvious?  Ah,  I  see! 
You  do  not  like  the  obvious,  then?" 

"Mr.  Loomis,"  said  the  witness  solemnly, 
"if  there  is  anything  I  hate  worse  than  the 
obvious  it  is  the  clear.  You  have  read  my 
books?" 

"Some  of  them,  and  it  is  of  them  that  I 
wish  to  speak.  Will  you  kindly  give  us 
your  theory  of  fiction?" 

"Fiction,  as  I  conceive  it,"  said  the  wit- 
ness slowly,  "is  the  science  of  inaction,  the 
microscopic  study  of  the'  subliminal,  the 
analysis  of  the  shadowy." 

"That  strikes  me  as  a  very  good  defini- 
tion, Mr.  James,"  said  Mark  Twain;  "but 
I  must  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that 
your  early  books  hardly  bear  out  your  the- 
ory— 'Daisy  Miller,'  for  instance,  shows  in 
reprehensible  degree  the  youthful  fault  of 
being  interesting." 

"Your  honour,"  said  the  great  dissector 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  41 

sadly,  "what  you  say  is  unfortunately  true. 
But  what  one  of  us  has  not  committed 
youthful  indiscretions?  The  past,  alas!  is 
immutable,  it  only  remains  for  us  to  do  the 
best  we  can  to  counteract  the  evil  influence 
of  ill-considered  actions.  That  I  have 
striven  conscientiously  to  do — I  defy  any 
one  who  has  read  'The  Wings  of  the  Dove' 
or  'The  Awkward  Age'  to  say  that  once 
during  the  perusal  he  experienced  a  thrill 
of  genuine,  unadulterated  pleasure.  There, 
does  that  not  make  up  for  any  unfortunate 
interest  attaching  to  'Daisy  Miller'  or  'Rod- 
erick Hudson'?  I  leave  it  to  the  court  to 
decide  whether  I  have  expiated  the  past." 

"You  have,  most  certainly,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  evidently  much  impressed.  "Pro- 
ceed with  the  witness,  Mr.  Loomis." 

"Now,  Mr.  James,"  said  the  examining 
attorney,  "let  us  come  to  the  matter  in  hand 
— the  patent  obscure  sentence.  Will  you 
kindly  explain  to  your  obfuscated  country- 
men, as,  no  doubt,  you  would  style  them, 
the  object  of  this  invention?" 

"The  object  of  the  obscure  sentence," 
said  the  complainant,  with  sudden  awaken- 


ing  of  interest,  "is  manifold.  It  is  useful, 
mainly,  as  the  repository  of  weak  and  im- 
potent thoughts.  But  it  is  more  than  that. 
Talleyrand  claimed  that  language  was  in- 
vented for  the  purpose  of  concealing 
thought;  I  have  carried  the  process  to  its 
ultimate  conclusion,  and  invented  a  form 
of  language  for  the  concealment  not  only 
of  thought,  but  of  the  lack  of  thought.  Be- 
yond that  it  is  impossible  to  go.  But  the 
obscure  sentence  subserves  a  further  pur- 
pose. It  is  a  Blue  Beard  castle  in  which 
all  sorts  of  improprieties  are  committed,  but 
into  which  the  young  person,  that  arch- 
enemy of  fictionists  brought  up  in  France, 
has  never  been  known  to  penetrate.  No 
one  under  twenty  years  of  age  can  by  any 
possibility  gain  admittance  into  one  of  these 
chambers  of  horrors  unless  accompanied  by 
an  older  person.  For  instance,  what,  seem- 
ingly, could  be  more  innocuous  than  this 
statement  on  page  50  of  'What  Maisie 
Knew' — 'Familiar  as  she  had  become  with 
the  great  alternative  of  the  proper,  she  felt 
that  her  governess  and  her  father  would 
have  a  substantial  reason  for  not  emulating 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  43 

that  detachment.'  I  depose,  you  might  let 
any  youthful  mind  loose  on  that  sentence, 
even  that  of  Anthony  Comstock,  and  the 
result  would  merely  be  that  of  a  dog's  wor- 
rying an  armadillo.  Am  I  not  right?" 

"You  are,  sir,"  replied  Mark  Twain;  "es- 
pecially as  regards  the  mind  of  our  censor 
montm.  But  pray,  proceed." 

"The  scientific  name  of  my  invention," 
continued  James,  "is  the  saitcntia  obscura; 
and  like  the  camera  obscura  of  the  photog- 
raphers, it  serves  for  the  projection  of  cer- 
tain ideas  and  images,  not  safely  to  be  pre- 
sented immediately  to  the  mere  Anglo- 
Saxon  mind.  For  that  reason  I  have 
strongly  recommended  its  use  to  George 
Moore,  but  to  no  purpose.  Indeed,  I  have 
even  sent  him  samples,  but  he  has  returned 
them  unused.  What  are  you  to  do  in  such 
a  case?" 

"What,  indeed?"  repeated  Mark  Twain, 
sympathetically ;  "it's  discouraging.  But  to 
continue,  Mr.  James,  when  did  you  con- 
ceive your  great  idea,  when  did  the  germ 
of  the  invention  first  lodge  in  your  mind?" 

"Your  honour,"  replied  the  author,  "I  have 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          44 

always  had  a  faculty  for  dissecting  an  emo- 
tion until  there  was  nothing  left  of  it;  and 
further,  I  may  say  I  showed  a  tendency  to 
write  so  that  nobody  could  understand,  even 
while  I  was  still  learning  my  letters.  And 
what's  the  use  of  having  a  talent,  unless 
you  develop  it,  even  if  it's  only  the  talent 
of  joking?" 

Mark  Twain  and  Herford  looked  as  se- 
rious as  owls. 

"Well,"  continued  the  inventor,  after  an 
expectant  pause,  "I  early  perceived  that 
although  language  had  been  carried  to  a 
high  state  of  perfection,  yet  the  highest 
degree  of  obscurity  had  not  been  reached, 
and  I  determined  to  reach  it.  George 
Meredith,  it  is  true,  has  done  much  to  help 
on  the  good  work,  but  even  he  has  stopped 
short  of  the  ultimate — his  most  involved 
sentences  can  be  analyzed  with  patience 
and  a  dictionary,  whereas  mine  defy  all 
efforts  of  the  most  cnictc.  Dr.  Johnson 
denned  network  as  'a  reticulated  structure 
with  interstices  between  the  intersections.' 
Similarly,  I  should  define  literature  as  an 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  45 


articulate  obstruction  with  obscurities  be- 
tween the  interjections." 

"You  are  most  happy  at  definitions,  Mr. 
James,"  said  Mark  Twain;  "but  unfortu- 
nately we  are  not  getting  any  nearer  to  the 
matter  under  dispute.  You  have  told  us 
at  some  length  of  the  conception  and  de- 
velopment of  your  idea  of  the  scntcntia 
obscura,  but  as  yet  we  have  heard  nothing 
in  regard  to  the  infringement  of  your 
patent  by  the  author  of  Scientific  Idiocy. 
What  is  your  ground  for  complaint?" 

"Your  honour,"  said  Mr.  James  im- 
pressively, "take  your  own  case — would 
you  relish  an  infringement  of  the  pseudo- 
humorous?  I  ask " 

"Silence!"  cried  the  presiding  judge,  rap- 
ping sharply  on  the  desk.  "Stick  to  the 
subject  in  hand,  or  if  you  must  refer  to  the 
pseudo-humorous,  take  Herford's  books. 
But  to  proceed,  in  what  way  has  the  de- 
fendant encroached  upon  your  patent?" 

"In  what  way,  sir?"  exclaimed  Henry 
James — "have  you  ever  read  anything  by 
her?" 

"I  have  tried,  Mr.  James." 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          46 

"And  yet,  your  honour,  you  consider  it 
necessary  to  ask  wherein  she  has  infringed 
upon  my  patent?  Have  you  ever  under- 
stood what  she  meant?" 

"Never  by  any  chance." 

"Well,  then,  don't  you  see  that  she  has 
used  my  patent  obscure  sentence  without 
giving  me  credit  for  it?" 

"Oh,  that's  the  point,  is  it?"  cried  Mark 
Twain.  "Well,  I  must  admit  there  is  a 
good  deal,  apparently,  in  your  contention. 
Have  you  anything  to  say,  sir?"  he  asked, 
turning  to  the  extremely  youthful  attorney 
beside  Mother  Eddy. 

"May  it  please  the  court — "  began  the 
lad  in  frightened  tones,  when  Mark  Twain 
cut  him  short. 

"By  the  way,  are  you  old  enough  to  prac- 
tice in  this  court?  Are  you  of  age?" 

"Mentally  or  physically,  your  honor?" 

"Physically,  of  course.  I  know  you're 
not  mentally  of  age,  or  you  wouldn't  keep 
the  company  you  do." 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  the  embryo  lawyer,  "I 
was  twenty-one  yesterday." 

"Mrs.  Eddy,"  said  Mark  Twain  sharply, 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  47 

addressing  the  Mother  of  all  the  Christian 
Scientists,  "what  do  you  mean  by  entrust- 
ing your  affairs  to  a  child  like  this?  Why 
did  you  employ  him?" 

"He  comes  cheap,  your  honour." 

"Ah!  I  might  have  suspected.  What 
do  you  pay  him?" 

"One  of  my  souvenir  spoons.  Another 
lawyer  would  have  cost  real  mortal  mind 
money." 

"For  your  own  interest,  madam,"  said 
the  presiding  judge,  "I  feel  compelled  to 
advise  you  to  conduct  your  own  case." 

"I  shall,  sir,  indirectly,"  was  the  reply — 
"if  he  gets  stuck,  I  shall  treat  him." 

"Well,  be  careful  not  to  treat  him  back- 
ward. And  now,  pray,  continue." 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  began  the 
youthful  pleader  again,  "I  shall  not  cross- 
examine  the  complainant ;  instead,  I  shall 
humbly  request  Our  Mother  to  take  the 
stand." 

"Our  Mother  who  art  in  Boston,"  mur- 
mured Herford,  irreverently. 

"Now,  Mother,"  said  the  possessor  of  the 
magic  spoon,  when  the  high  priestess  had 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          48 

relieved  James,  "I  shall  make  my  questions 
as  short  and  dutiful  as  I  can.  How  old  are 
you?" 

"As  old  as  truth." 

"Where  do  you  live,  Mother?" 

"In  Concord." 

"In  concord — with  whom?"  cried  Her- 
ford  in  surprise. 

"With  the  healers,  your  honour." 

"Mother,"  said  the  presiding  judge  ear- 
nestly, "we  wish  to  keep  politics  out  of  this 
investigation  as  much  as  possible,  so  kindly 
omit  the  ward-heelers.  Tell  us,  is  it  true 
that  you  are  never  going  to  die?" 

"Well,  not  if  Humphrey's  specifics  can 
prevent  it." 

"Umph,  I  see !"  said  Mark  Twain.  "Con- 
tinue your  questions,  Mr.  Spooncr." 

"Now,  Mother,"  said  the  young  advocate 
deprecatingly,  "pardon  the  question,  but  is 
it  true  that  you  used  the  complainant's 
patent  obscure  sentence  without  giving 
him  credit  for  it?" 

"My  son,"  replied  the  avatar  of  Con- 
fuse-us,  "only  those  not  in  Science  need  an 
answer  to  that  question.  I  answer  it  on 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  49 

page  12  of  my  great  work.  I  say  there: 
'No  human  tongue  or  pen  has  suggested  the 
contents  of  the  "Science  of  Wealth,"  nor  can 
tongue  or  pen  overthrow  it.'  In  my  wis- 
dom I  foresaw  this  charge  of  the  ungodly." 

"What  is  the  charge  of  the  godly,  Mrs. 
Eddy?"  asked  the  presiding  judge. 

"In  what  binding,  sir — full  leather,  rice 
paper  and  gilt  edges?  Seven  dollars  and 
eighty-five  cents." 

"I  thought  the  price  must  be  something 
like  that/'  said  Mark  Twain,  "for  on  page 
275  °f  your  immortal  book  you  say:  'A 
Christian  Scientist  requires  Science  and 
Stealth,  and  so  do  all  his  students  and 
patients.'  That,  I  believe,  is  your  Scien- 
tific Statement  of  Being  Rich.  By  the 
way,  were  you  one  of  the  Captains  of  In- 
dustry invited  to  meet  Prince  Henry  when 
he  was  over  here?" 

"Your  honour,"  said  the  head  of  the  great 
publishing  trust,  "compared  to  me,  the 
men  invited  to  that  dinner  were  mere  ama- 
teurs in  the  science  of  money-getting.  Mr. 
Rockefeller  and  Mr.  Carnegie  have  been 
known  to  contribute  to  charity.  I  have 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          50 

done  away  with  such  waste-pipes  to  wealth. 
There  is  no  charity  in  Christian  Science." 

"Excuse  me,  Mother,"  said  Herford 
apologetically,  "but  why  do  you  write  your 
religion  C.  S.,  instead  of  S.  C. — Strictly 
Cash?" 

"Your  honour,"  was  the  sententious  reply, 
"it  is  not  true  that  a  bait  by  any  other 
name  would  catch  the  fish." 

"Continue,"  said  Mark  Twain  impa- 
tiently; "we  are  wasting  too  much  time 
with  finding  out  what  we  already  know." 

"Now,  Mother,"  said  the  youth  who  had 
not  been  born  with  a  memorial  spoon  in 
his  mouth,  "you  have  already  refuted  the 
contention  that  you  used  the  Henry  James 
patent  obscure  sentence  without  credit  by 
citing  your  own  inspired  words.  Still,  to 
make  this  doubly  clear  even  to  the  unscien- 
tific mind,  I  will  ask  you  a  few  questions. 
When  was  the  first  edition  of  the  'Science 
of  Wealth'  published?" 

"In  the  year  1875." 

"And  since  then  have  there  been  any 
changes  in  the  book?" 

"Only  such  trivial  alterations  as  enabled 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  51 

me  to  order  my  followers  to  buy  up  each 
edition  as  it  appeared." 

"And  how  many  editions  have  there  been 
up  to  the  present  time?" 

"Over  two  hundred." 

The  young  man  with  the  silver  spoon 
looked  triumphantly  about  the  room,  as 
one  who  says,  Isn't  that  proof  that  the 
"Science  of  Wealth"  was  inspired? 

"And  in  all  of  these  editions,"  he  con- 
tinued, addressing  the  witness,  "you  have 
employed  obscurity,  I  believe,  as  your  chiei 
weapon?" 

"As  a  student  of  my  book,  my  son,  you 
yourself  know  that  you  speak  the  truth. 
How  else  could  I  have  succeeded  as  I  have 
done?" 

"And  for  this  idea,  Mother,  you  were  in- 
debted neither  to  Henry  James  nor  to  any 
one  else — it  was  your  owrn  original  idea?" 

"It  was — it  was  my  only  original  idea." 

The  complainant's  chances  began  to  look 
dark. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  continued  the 
silver-spooned  orator,  turning  toward  us, 
"you  have  heard  the  testimony  both  of  the 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          52 

complainant  and  of  the  defendant  as  re- 
gards the  conception  of  the  great  idea  of 
obscurity.  By  the  complainant's  own  ad- 
mission, his  invention  is  the  product  of 
his  later  years,  of  his  own  literary  awkward 
age;  whereas  my  client  has  always  been 
obscure,  she  has  never  been  anything  else. 
I  quote  from  the  opinion  delivered  in  the 
year  1900,  by  Judge  Alvey  of  the  Court  of 
Appeals  for  the  District  of  Columbia,  in  the 
patent  case  of  Christensen  versus  Noyes — 
it  settles  once  and  for  all  the  question  of 
priority.  'It  is  a  settled  principle  in  the 
patent  law,'  says  the  learned  judge,  'that 
the  date  of  an  invention  is  the  date  of  the 
discovery  or  clear  and  definite  conception 
of  the  idea  involved  and  the  attempt  to 
embody  it  in  some  external  form  or  shape.' 
This  Our  Mother  did  as  early  as  1875,  when 
the  complainant  was  still  writing  such 
childishly  clear  and  entertaining  stories  as 
'Daisy  Miller'  and  'Watch  and  Ward.' 
How,  then,  can  he  claim  priority  in  the  field 
of  obscurity,  in  which  Our  Mother  has 
raised  such  a  rich  crop  of  confusion  and 
humbug?  Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  think 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  53 


an  action  would  lie  against  the  complainant 
in  this  suit  for  infringement  of  my  client's 
patent.  I  have  finished  with  the  witness." 

"Do  you  wish  to  examine  the  witness, 
Mr.  Loomis?"  asked  Mark  Twain. 

"Yes,  your  honor,  I  should  like  to  ask 
her  a  question  or  two.  But  I  shall  detain 
the  court  only  a  very  few  moments.  Now, 
Mother,  you  have  laid  claim  to  priority  in 
the  great  commercial  conception  of  obscur- 
ity, and  the  court  must  decide  between  you 
and  my  client.  In  this  connection  I  would 
ask  you,  is  it  true  that  the  antecedents  of 
your  relatives  are  often  obscure?" 

"The  antecedents  of  my  relatives,  Mr. 
Loomis?"  repeated  the  defendant — "why, 
not  only  that,  but  my  own  antecedents  are 
obscure." 

"That  is  promising,"  said  Loomis,  sol- 
emnly. "However,  priority  is  not  the  only 
question  involved  in  this  suit — the  question 
of  degree  also  enters  into  it:  plain,  every- 
day obscurity  is  not  enough,  you  must  be 
able  to  show  obscurity  of  the  high  order  ex- 
hibited by  my  client  in  all  of  his  later  books 
in  constantly  increasing  perfection.  To 


54 


show  you  what  I  mean,  I  shall  read  you  a 
sentence  or  two,  abridged  of  course,  from 
'The  Wings  of  the  Dove,'  and  you  can  then 
see  whether  you  are  able  to  match  these 
selections  with  anything  from  your  own 
writings.  On  page  73  of  the  novel  referred 
to  we  find  this  puzzle — listen  attentively, 
or  you  are  lost : — 'the  extinction  of  her  two 
younger  brothers — the  other,  the  flower  of 
the  flock,  a  middy  on  the  Britannia,  dread- 
fully drowned,  and  not  even  by  an  accident 
at  sea,  but  by  cramp,  unrescued,  while  bath- 
ing, too  late  in  the  autumn,  in  a  wretched 
little  river  during  a  holiday  visit  to  the 
house  of  a  shipmate.'  Whew!  There, 
what  do  you  think  of  that?" 

"I  think,  sir,"  was  the  authoress's  prompt 
reply,  "that  he  should  have  had  immediate 
Christian  Science  treatment,  at  eight  shil- 
lings per." 

"Well,  I  must  admit  that  is  a  good  prac- 
tical interpretation,"  said  Loomis.  "I'll  try 
you  again  on  something  easier.  On  page  6 
of  the  same  delightful  book  my  client  makes 
this  statement  regarding  the  heroine: 
'More  "dressed,"  often,  with  fewer  accesso- 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  55 

ries,  than  other  women,  or  less  dressed, 
should  occasion  require  it,  with  more,  she 
probably  could  not  have  given  the  key  to 
these  felicities.'  Can  you  crack  that  nut, 
Mother?" 

"That's  easy,"  said  the  lady  from  Con- 
cord— "it's  only  a  new  dress  for  my  own 
Scientific  Statement  of  Being:  'There  is  no 
Life,  Substance  or  Intelligence  in  matter. 
All  is  Mind  and  its  infinite  manifestations.'  " 

Loomis  shook  his  head  in  wonder. 

"By  George!"  he  said,  "you're  the  best 
interpreter  of  Henry  James  I  have  come 
across.  He  told  me  himself  what  that 
sentence  meant,  and  although  I've  forgot- 
ten what  he  said,  it  wasn't  as  clear  a  state- 
ment as  yours  by  a  long  shot.  Perhaps, 
however,  you  will  favor  us  with  a  sample 
of  your  own  obscurity  for  comparison  with 
my  client's?" 

"With  pleasure,  Mr.  Loomis.  But  you 
will  find  my  obscurity  of  a  different  nature, 
much  more  subtle.  Like  my  students, 
doubtless,  you  will  imagine  that  you  under- 
stand what  I  shall  read  to  you,  while  in 
reality  remaining  blissfully  ignorant  of  its 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE  56 

meaning.  That  is  the  true  obscurity — ob- 
scnrnm  in  claro.  If  you  wish  to  make  liter- 
ature pay,  young  man,  you  must  learn  the 
secret  of  befuddling  your  audience  while 
seeming  to  enlighten  it.  Do  you  take  me?" 

"As  never  before,   Mother." 

"Well,  you  are  one  of  a  very  small  num- 
ber who  do.  But  now  for  some  samples  of 
the  higher  sort  of  obscurity.  Hand  me  the 
'Science  of  Wealth.'  I  open  it  at  random — 
thus.  Hear  what  I  have  written.  'Think 
of  thyself  as  an  orange  just  eaten,  of  which 
only  the  pleasant  idea  is  left.'  'Man  is 
neither  young  nor  old ;  he  has  neither  birth 
nor  death.  He  is  not  an  animal,  vegetable 
or  migrating  mind — passing  from  the  mor- 
tal to  the  immortal,  from  evil  to  good,  or 
from  good  to  evil.'  And  again,  'There  is 
but  one  God.  The  spiritual  He,  She  and 
It  are  Mind  and  Mind's  ideas.'  And  once 
more,  'Adhesion,  cohesion  and  attraction 
are  not  forces  of  matter.  They  are  proper- 
ties of  Mind;  they  belong  to  Principle.' 
Now  there,  young  man,  I  have  no  doubt 
you  think  you  understood  all  that.  If  you 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  57 

did,  you  have  done  more  than  anybody  else 
ever  did,  that's  all  I  can  say." 

"Have  you  any  more  samples  like  those?" 
asked  Herford  weakly. 

"Plenty;  my  book  is  made  up  of  them. 
One  more,  however,  will  suffice,  and  I  leave 
the  writer  in  The  North  American  Review 
who  says  that  it  is  better  to  be  refined  than 
accurate  in  dealing  with  Christian  Science, 
to  judge  whether  it  is  a  statement  of  truth 
or  not:  'A  man  respects  the  reputation  of  a 
woman,  but  a  mouse  will  gnaw  in  the  dark 
at  a  spotless  garment.'  Have  you  finished 
with  me?" 

Mark  Twain  looked  uncomfortable. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  accurate  instead  of 
refined,"  he  murmured,  doubtless  in  recol- 
lection of  his  having  christened  the  C.  S. 
Journal  "that  literary  slush-bucket." 

"Take  your  seat,  madam,"  he  said  sharply. 

With  triumphant  air  the  inventor  of  the 
Strictly  Cash  system  rose  and  swept  to  her 
place  beside  the  silver-spooned  orator.  As 
she  did  so  she  gave  utterance  to  this  strik- 
ing paraphrase,  which,  doubtless  is  from 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          58 

her  Key  to  the  Scriptures:  "The  world  is 
my  oyster,  I  shall  not  lack." 

Ten  minutes  later,  after  short  arguments 
by  the  two  attorneys,  Mark  Twain,  Her- 
ford  and  myself  retired  to  take  the  case 
under  consideration.  In  view  of  the  testi- 
mony, there  was  no  possibility  of  disagree- 
ment, and  this  was  the  judgment  at  which 
we  quickly  arrived  and  which  was  delivered 
by  the  presiding  judge  at  the  next  sitting 
of  the  court: 

"After  a  careful  consideration  of  the  tes- 
timony offered  both  by  the  complainant  and 
the  defendant,  in  the  case  of  James  versus 
Eddy  for  infringement  of  patent,  the  court 
finds  for  the  defendant,  Eddy,  on  every 
count.  The  testimony  does  not  show  an  in- 
fringement of  patent  on  the  defendant's 
part.  On  the  contrary,  an  examination  of 
the  works  of  the  defendant  shows  clearly 
that  her  obscurity  is  of  her  own  invention, 
beyond  the  mental  capacity  of  mere  man. 
To  make  clear  the  difference  between  the 
obscurity  of  the  two  authors,  the  matter 
may  be  thus  stated:  In  reading  the  com- 
plainant's later  writings,  one  cannot,  it  is 


JAMES  vs.  EDDY  59 

true,  by  any  effort  of  the  mind  understand 
the  separate  patent  obscure. sentences;  but 
at  the  end  one  has  a  fairly  foggy  idea  of 
the  lack  of  progression  in  the  story,  and 
could  give  a  more  or  less  confused  account 
of  the  events  which  have  not  happened.  In 
the  case  of  the  'Science  of  Wealth,'  on  the 
other  hand,  the  wayfaring  man,  though  a 
fool,  can  detect  the  misleading  statements 
which  lie  in  between  the  half-truths  scat- 
tered through  the  book;  but  the  recording 
angel  himself,  although  used  to  clerical 
work,  would  fail  to  tell  what  the  book  was 
about  at  the  end  of  the  twentieth  perusal. 
The  costs  are  on  the  complainant." 


III.  The  Mummy  and  the  Hum- 
ming-bird, being  the  case  of 
The  Peopled.  John  Ken- 
drick  Bangs  and  James 
Brander  Matthews 

Evidence  of  Larceny  of  Jokes  was 
ruled  out  on  grounds  of  public  policy, 
as  tending  to  establish  a  dangerous 
precedent,  but  it  was 

Held,  That  the  fact  that  a  lack  of 
humor,  if  not  proven  to  be  that  of 
others,  under  the  above  ruling,  is  no 
reason  for  acquittal ;  also  that  the 
admission  of  a  literary  expert  in  an 
article  upon  the  art  of  writing  may 
be  used  against  him  in  evidence  of 
the  crime  of  unjustified  narration. 

Verdict :  Guilty  in  the  Second 

Degree  with  recommendation  to 

mercy. 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  61 

PRISONERS  to  the  bar!"  cried  the 
clerk  of  the  court,  and  the  two  accused 
authors  rose  and  advanced  to  the  boundary- 
railing  in  front  of  the  clerk's  desk. 

"John  Kendrick  Bangs  and  James  Bran- 
der  Matthews,"  began  Mark  Twain,  severe- 
ly, "are  you  represented  by  counsel?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  jauntily  replied  Bangs,  speak- 
ing for  himself  as  well  as  for  his  frightened 
companion;  "this  is  our  counsel,  Mr.  James 
Lindsay  Gordon." 

Mark  Twain  fixed  his  glowing  eyes  on 
the  classic  features  of  the  young  lawyer 
who  stood  at  the  speaker's  side. 

"Humph!  he's  a  poet,  ain't  he?" 

Mr.  Gordon  flushed  crimson  at  the  insult. 

"I  have  written  verse,"  he  said,  with  great 
self-restraint,  "but  by  profession  I  am  a 
lawyer." 

"Well,  I'm  satisfied  if  your  clients  are," 
said  the  presiding  judge,  "it's  their  risk,  not 
mine." 

"He  was  the  best  we  could  get,  your 
honour,"  piped  up  the  Professor  timidly; 
"all  the  other  lawyers  we  went  to  said  they 
believed  in  our  guilt,  and  refused — ouch!" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          62 

His  companion's  attempt  to  check  him 
had  come  too  late.  He  now  looked  at 
Bangs  ruefully,  but  that  facetious  indivi- 
dual was  making  pretence  of  being  unaware 
of  the  Professor's  existence. 

"Are  you  satisfied  with  the  make-up  of 
the  jury  that  tried  Richard  Harding  Davis, 
Mr.  Gordon?"  asked  Mark  Twain,  "or  do 
you  wish  a  new  panel?" 

"We  are  satisfied,  sir." 

"Very    well;    let   the    trial   proceed." 

Instead  of  diminishing,  public  interest  in 
the  proceedings  of  the  Literary  Emergency 
Court  had  increased,  and  the  attendance  at 
our  second  criminal  session  was  at  least 
equal  to  that  when  a  just  fate  had  at  length 
overtaken  the  author  of  "Soldiers  of  For- 
tune." Moreover,  we  now  felt  that  we  had 
the  people  back  of  us ;  every  newspaper  in 
New  York  had  printed  laudatory  editorials 
on  our  courage  in  condemning  this  cor- 
rupter  of  the  public  taste,  and  had  given  ex- 
pression to  the  hope  that  we  would  show 
equal  firmness  in  dealing  with  other  of- 
fenders. In  addition,  each  post  brought 
letters  of  gratitude  from  parents  of  young 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  63 

girls  throughout  the  country,  couched  in 
language  such  as  comes  only  to  those  whose 
offspring  have  been  rescued  from  an  awful 
fate. 

At  the  preliminary  arraignment  both  of 
the  accused  had  entered  the  plea  of  not 
guilty,  despite  the  array  of  evidence  which 
they  must  have  known  we  were  prepared 
to  offer  against  them. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Loomis, 
rising  at  the  close  of  the  foregoing  prelim- 
inaries, "your  honours  have  before  you  to- 
day a  case  of  similar  nature  to  the  one 
recently  disposed  of  with  such  perspicuity, 
but  one  which  differs  in  several  respects 
from  that  of  the  People  against  Davis. 
That  was  a  case  of  facts ;  this  is,  to  some 
extent,  a  case  in  which  expert  testimony  will 
be  needed  to  prove  the  guilt  of  the  accused. 
These  men  have  not  allowed  themselves 
to  be  taken  red-handed,  they  were  too  clever 
for  that;  they  have  carefully  covered  up 
their  tracks.  But  they  are  none  the  less 
guilty.  As  I  said  before,  it  will  be  neces- 
sary to  put  experts  on  the  stand  to  fasten 


64 


the  crime  on  one  of  them,  at  least,  so  well 
is  his  humour  disguised.  However " 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Loomis!"  I  inter- 
rupted. "You  don't  mean  to  say  that  we  are 
going  to  have  handwriting  experts  in  this 
case,  do  you?" 

"No,  your  honour,"  replied  the  prosecutor, 
"handwriting  experts  would  serve  no  pur- 
pose in  the  present  instance,  as  the  worst 
felonies  of  the  accused  have  been  committed 
with  the  typewriter.  But  I  do  not  despair 
on  that  account.  I  shall  fasten  their  crimes 
on  them  in  due  course.  And  now,  if  it 
please  the  court,  we  will  proceed  to  the 
hearing  of  witnesses.  I  shall  leave  the  ex- 
perts till  the  last." 

"Call  your  witnesses,"  said  Mark  Twain. 

At  this  inopportune  moment  Herford 
leaned  across  to  me  and  propounded  the 
following  riddle: 

"What  is  the  difference  between  a  pro- 
fessor of  English  who  writes  stories  and 
one  who  does  not?" 

Not  to  disappoint  him  I  asked  for  the 
answer. 

"One   babbles   of   diction   and  the   other 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  65 

dabbles  in  fiction,"  he  said,  triumphantly. 
And  this  man  had  been  made  a  judge  over 
others ! 

"Bernard  Shaw!"  called  the  clerk.  Every 
one  sat  up  with  sudden  interest. 

Bernard  Shaw,  however,  proved  to  be  a 
red-cheeked,  phlegmatic  youth  of  sixteen 
years  of  age,  who,  after  having  been  sworn, 
described  himself  as  an  attendant  at  the 
Astor  Library.  His  duties,  he  said,  con- 
sisted in  delivering  books  to  readers  and 
in  wandering  through  the  rooms  to  see  that 
no  one  stole  or  misused  the  property  of  the 
institution. 

"Now,  Bernard,"  said  Loomis,  after  hav- 
ing elicited  this  information,  "have  you  ever 
seen  this  defendant  before,  the  one — with — - 
without  any  hair  apparent?" 

"Mr.  Bangs? — yes,  sir,  often." 

"In  the  reading-room?" 

"Sure." 

"And  you  have  brought  books  to  him?" 

"Yep." 

"What  were  they,  as  nearly  as  you  can 
remember?" 

"Alluz  the  same.     He  alluz  kep'  'em  re- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          66 

served  for  himself:  Bill  Nye,  Hudibras, 
Fable  for  Critics,  Artemus  Ward,  and  Mark 
Twain." 

A  smile  flitted  across  the  face  of  every 
one  present. 

"And  what  did  he  do  with  these  books, 
Bernard?" 

"Copied  out  of  'em." 

"He  copied  out  of  'em,  did  he?  Well, 
now,  I  want  you  to  tell  the  court  what  hap- 
pened on  the  fifteenth  of  last  September, 
what  experience  you  had  with  the  pris- 
oner." 

"Well,  you  see,  it  was  this-a-way,"  said 
the  lad,  in  the  indifferent  manner  proper 
to  a  library  attendant.  "I  was  standin', 
leanin'  against  a  shelf,  lookin'  at  him  sorter 
careless-like,  when  suddintly  I  seen  him 
begin  to  laugh,  and  then  up  he  snatched  his 
pencil  and  begun  to  write  as  hard  as  ever 
he  could  lick  it.  In  a  flash  I  knowed  what 
he  was  up  to,  and  as  it's  my  business  to  see 
that  nobody  steals  nothin'  from  the  library, 
up  I  crep'  to  him  on  tip-toe,  without  his  see- 
in'  me,  until  I  got  alongside  of  him  and  then 
I  hollered  out  quick,  'What's  that?'  Gee 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  67 

whiz !  you  ought  to  seen  him  jump !  But 
before  I  could  get  a  look  at  what  he  was 
writing  he'd  covered  it  up  with  his  hand. 
'Let  me  see  that !'  I  said,  but  he  wouldn't, 
so  off  I  started  to  get  the  director.  When 
I  come  back,  though,  he  was  gone,  and  I 
ain't  seen  him  from  that  day  to  this." 

"Now,  Bernard,  what  do  you  think  he 
was  doing?" 

"Stealin'  jokes,  sure." 

"I  object !"  cried  the  defendant's  lawyer, 
springing  to  his  feet.  "This  is  only  sup- 
position." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Mark 
Twain.  "It  looks  suspiciously  like  some- 
thing else.  What's  your  opinion  about 
admitting  this  point?"  he  asked,  turning 
to  Herford. 

"You'd  better  rule  it  out,"  was  the  hur- 
ried reply,  "just  as  quick  as  you  can,  or 
you'll  be  getting  us  all  into  all  sorts  of 
trouble.  Think  of  the  precedent." 

"Objection  sustained,"  announced  the 
presiding  judge. 

The  witness  was  then  turned  over  to  Mr. 
Gordon  for  cross-examination.  Of  course 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          68 


it  proved  an  easy  matter  to  show  that  the 
boy's  testimony  was  devoid  of  all  basis  of 
certainty,  but  the  moral  effect  of  his  story 
on  the  jury  was  not  materially  lessened. 

The  next  witness  was  the  director  of  an 
asylum  for  the  feeble-minded.  His  testi- 
mony was  to  the  effect  that  through  an 
oversight  copies  of  the  New  York  Sunday 
Times,  containing  instalments  of  "The 
Genial  Idiot,"  by  the  accused,  had  found 
their  way  into  the  institution  and  had 
caused  such  a  rumpus  that  he  was  likely  to 
lose  his  place. 

"The  inmates  are  firmly  convinced,"  de- 
clared the  witnetes,  glancing  timidly 
around,  as  though  expecting  to  find  them 
on  his  track,  "that  some  one  has  been  re- 
porting their  conversation  for  publication, 
and  of  course  they  accuse  me.  You  have 
no  idea  how  sensitve  idiots  are  to  imita- 
tion." 

"Is  it  a  good  imitation?"  asked  Mark 
Twain. 

"That's  the  trouble,  your  honor — it's 
perfect." 

There     was     evidently     nothing     to     be 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  69 

gained  by  subjecting  this  witness  to  cross- 
examination,  and  the  defence  wisely  waived 
their  privilege. 

"Now,  your  honours,"  said  Loomis,  "if  it 
please  the  court,  I  should  like  to  call  one 
expert  at  least." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mark  Twain. 

Thereupon  the  name  of  Creighton  Bar- 
niwinkle  was  called,  and  a  long,  lugubrious, 
sad-eyed  individual  stepped  forward  and 
took  the  stand.  His  age,  he  said,  was  sev- 
enty-seven, and  for  fifty-eight  years  he  had 
been  on  the  editorial  staff  of  various  hu- 
morous publications.  He  had  frequently 
qualified,  he  stated,  as  an  expert  on  humour. 

"Have  you  read  the  writings  of  the  ac- 
cused, Mr.  Barniwinkle?"  asked  Loomis. 

"Yes,  sir,  the  entire  collection." 

"How  many  volumes  is  that?" 

"Thirty-three." 

Bangs  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair. 

"Well,  now,  Mr.  Barniwinkle,"  continued 
Loomis,  pitilessly,  "will  you  state  what,  in 
your  opinion,  is  the  funniest  thing  in  the 
entire  range  of  the  writings  of  the  ac- 
cused?" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          70 

Instantly  came  the  reply. 

"The  manner  in  which,  on  page  20  of  the 
book  called  'Peeps  at  People/  the  author 
confuses  the  starboard  and  port  sides  of  a 
ship." 

"That  will  do,  Mr.  Barni winkle,"  an- 
nounced Loomis,  and  the  witness  started 
to  leave  the  stand. 

"One  moment,  please!"  cried  the  defen- 
dant's lawyer,  rising,  "I  should  like  to  ques- 
tion the  witness." 

Accordingly  the  melancholy  authority  on 
jokes  reseated  himself. 

"Now,  Mr.  Barniwinkle,"  said  Gordon,  in 
his  sweetest  manner,  "you  say  you  are  an 
expert  on  humour?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"And  you  have  had  a  long  experience  in 
such  matters?" 

"All  my  life." 

"Humph!  Let  me  ask  you  a  question: 
Have  you  never  made  a  mistake  in  your 
specialty?  Have  you  never  thought  some- 
thing funny  which  was  not,  or  -rice  versa?'1 

For  a  moment  the  witness  hesitated. 

"Yes — once." 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  71 


"When  was  that?" 

"When  I  was  editor  of  the  Buffalo  Bull, 
I  once  accepted  a  story  by  Charles  Battell 
Loomis." 

Of  course  this  brought  down  the  house. 
Quickly  seizing  the  unexpected  advantage, 
Mr.  Gordon  declared  that  he  had  finished 
with  the  witness.  But  Loomis  was  equal 
to  the  occasion.  So  soon  as  quiet  had  been 
restored,  he  arose  and  addressed  the  court. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  he  said,  "the 
defence  has  very  cleverly  attempted  to  turn 
the  tables  on  the  prosecution,  by  showing 
that  I  once  wrote  something  humorous 
which  was  a  failure.  I  admit  the  charge. 
But  what  then?  I  am  not  on  trial,  and  even 
if  I  were,  one  slip  would  not  be  enough  to 
convict  me.  Before  this  turn  of  affairs  I 
had  intended  to  call  a  number  of  other  wit- 
nesses, but  the  defence  has  very  kindly 
pointed  out  to  me  an  easier  and  quicker 
course.  I  will  accept  their  hint.  They 
have  shown  that  I  once  failed  to  be  humor- 
ous— well,  let  them  now  show  that  the  ac- 
cused once  succeeded  in  being  funny,  one 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          72 

single  time,  and  I  will  be  the  first  to  move 
for  his  acquittal." 

I  caught  my  breath — did  Loomis  realize 
the  risk  he  was  running?  Surely  every  man, 
even  the  accused,  had  been  funny  once  in 
his  life !  The  room  was  in  a  buzz  of  excite- 
ment. The  defendant's  lawyer  was  on  his 
feet,  trying  to  make  himself  heard. 

"We  accept  the  gage !"  he  cried.  "How 
shall  we  test  the  question?" 

"Let  the  defendant  take  the  stand,"  said 
Loomis. 

"Willingly!"  cried  Bangs,  and  with  a 
jaunty,  confident  air  he  walked  to  the  wit- 
ness chair  and  sat  down. 

"Put  that  table  yonder  where  the  defen- 
dant can  reach  it,"  ordered  Loomis,  indicat- 
ing a  table  covered  with  the  thirty-three 
bound  volumes  of  the  works  of  the  accused 
and  with  a  thick  pile  of  newspaper  maga- 
zine supplements.  Two  attendants  stag- 
gered with  their  loads  to  the  point  indi- 
cated. 

"Now,  Mr.  Bangs,"  said  Loomis,  when 
these  preparations  had  been  completed, 
"before  you  is  a  collection  of  your  works, 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  73 

together  with  the  issues  of  'The  Genial 
Idiot' — am  I  right?" 

The  defendant  nodded. 

"Well,  I  give  you  carte  blanche — take  up 
any  volume  you  choose,  turn  to  any  part  of 
it  you  choose,  read  out  any  portion  you 
choose,  and  we  will  then  leave  it  to  the  jury 
to  decide  whether  what  you  have  read  is 
funny.  Does  that  strike  you  as  fair?" 

"Perfectly  so,"  said  Bangs,  with  a  smile, 
as  one  who  says,  "What  a  soft  proposition 
you  are !"  Thereupon  he  leaned  forward  to 
select  the  volume  from  which  to  read.  For 
a  moment  he  hesitated,  then  he  made  his 
choice.  As  he  opened  the  book  I  read  the 
name  on  the  back,  "Over  the  Plum-pud- 
ding." For  several  moments  of  expectant 
silence  he  turned  the  leaves  in  his  search 
for  something  excruciatingly  funny.  Sud- 
denly a  triumphant  smile  illumined  his  face. 

"Ah,  you  have  found  it!"  said  Loomis. 
"Won't  you  share  it  with  us?" 

"Listen !"  said  Bangs,  turning  toward  the 
jury.  "This  is  from  the  conversation  be- 
tween a  young  student  at  college  and  a 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          74 

ghost  of  one  of  the  students  of  a  hundred 
years  previously. 

"  'Ah?'  said  Parley,  smartly,  'you  had 
blue  cows  in  your  days,  eh?' 

"  'Oh,  my,  yes !'  replied  the  strange  vis- 
itor; 'lots  of  'em.  Take  any  old  cow  and 
deprive  her  of  her  calf,  and  she  becomes  as 
blue  as  indigo.'  " 

The  author  ceased  and  looked  at  the  jury 
with  expectant  smile.  Death-like  silence 
reigned  in  the  room.  But  suddenly  from 
the  rear  came  a  loud  guffaw,  and  then  one 
of  the  jurors  began  to  shake  with  laughter 
— it  was  the  plumber!  His  companions  re- 
garded him  in  amazement. 

"Ah,  well — I'm  afraid — ah — that  wasn't  a 
very  happy  choice,"  stammered  Bangs;  "it 
seems  to  be  somewhat  over  their  heads. 
May  I  have  another  trial?" 

"Certainly,"  replied  Loomis,  indulgently. 

"Perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  my  selecting 
another  book,  either?" 

"Just  as  you  wish." 

Evidently  Loomis  felt  sure  of  his  ground. 

"Ah,  here  I  have  it!"  cried  the  author, 
taking  up  a  fresh  volume.  "This  is  called 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  75 

'Ghosts  I  Have  Met.'  Let  me  see,  now. 
Yes,  here's  a  good  thing  on  page  5.  I  am 
speaking,  you  must  understand,  of  cigars  at 
this  point.  'They — namely,  the  cigars — 
cost  $3.99  a  thousand  on  five  days  in  the 
week,  but  at  the  Monday  sale  they  were 
marked  down  to  $1.75,  which  is  why  my 
wife,  to  whom  I  had  recently  read  a  little 
lecture  on  economy,  purchased  them  for  me. 
Upon  the  evening  in  question  I  had  been 
at  work  on  this  cigar  for  about  two  hours, 
and  had  smoked  one  side  of  it  three-quar- 
ters of  the  way  down  to  the  end,  when  I 
concluded  that  I  had  smoked  enough.1 
There,  now,  isn't  that  funny?" 

This  time  there  was  no  answering  laugh; 
a  wan  smile  was  on  the  faces  of  the  twelve 
men  in  whose  hands  his  fate  rested.  Even 
the  plumber  had  left  him  in  the  lurch. 

"Are  you  satisfied,  Mr.  Bangs?"  de- 
manded Loomis,  and  the  humorist  recov- 
ered himself  with  a  start. 

"Oh — ah — just  one  more  trial!"  he 
begged — "just  one  more!" 

"Very  well,  one  more,  then." 

Evidently  the  defendant  realized  the  im- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          76 

portance  of  this  final  test,  and  for  some 
minutes  he  searched  in  vain  for  something 
to  meet  his  wishes.  Finally,  however,  he 
disovered  what  he  was  looking  for,  and  this 
is  what  he  read  to  us  from  page  10  of  the 
same  book  from  which  the  previous  selec- 
tion had  been  taken. 

"  'I  must  claim  in  behalf  of  my  town,  that 
never  in  all  my  experience  have  I  known  a 
summer  so  hot  that  it  was  not,  sooner  or 
later — by  January,  anyhow — followed  by  a 
cool  spell.'  " 

Certainly,  the  reading  of  this  paragraph 
was  followed  by  a  cool  spell :  a  more  sober- 
looking  set  of  men  than  the  jury  at  that 
moment  it  would  be  difficult  to  find. 
Bangs  turned  his  eyes  appealingly  toward 
Mark  Twain's  countenance,  but  what  he 
saw  there  must  have  discouraged  him.  His 
jaw  dropped  and  he  turned  helplessly  to 
Loomis.  The  same  thing,  evidently,  had 
happened  to  him  which  had  happened  to 
Davis  at  the  previous  trial:  the  sudden 
realization  of  his  desperate  plight  had 
flashed  across  his  mind.  Nevermore  would 
he  demand — and  get — three  cents  a  word 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  77 


for  the  sayings  of  an  Idiot !  Poor  fellow ! 
Slowly  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  started  back 
to  his  chair  beside  Gordon. 

"One  moment,  please,  Mr.  Bangs,"  said 
Loomis.  "Just  one  more  question." 

The  defendant  reseated  himself. 

"Now,  Mr.  Bangs,  I  want  to  ask  you  to 
give  the  jury  an  exhibition  of  your  skill  in 
making  jokes ;  to  show  them  how  humorous 
writings  are  concocted.  In  other  words, 
make  up  a  joke  now,  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment,  such  as  you  include  in  your  weekly 
instalment  of  'The  Genial  Idiot.'  That 
should  be  an  easy  matter  for  you." 

"Well,  let's  see,"  said  the  defendant,  per- 
ceptibly brightening  at  the  prospect  of 
showing  off,  "what  shall  it  be?  Ah,  yes,  I 
should  go  about  it  something  in  this  man- 
ner. I'd  run  over  in  my  mind,  you  see,  a 
number  of  recent  events  which  had  at- 
tracted public  attention,  and  then  I'd  select 
one  of  these,  as  for  instance,  the  trial  of  the 
Christian  Scientists  at  White  Plains  for 
manslaughter,  and  about  this  I'd  build  my 
joke,  something  in  this  manner: 

"  'Ah,    Mr.   Brief,  you    are   looking   pale 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          78 

this  morning/  said  the  Idiot  genially,  as  he 
carefully  spread  the  napkin  over  his  knees. 

"  'I  have  reason  to,'  was  the  lugubrious 
reply.  'I  have  been  retained  to  defend 
John  Carroll  Lathrop  against  the  charge 
of  manslaughter.' 

"  'Man's  daughter,  you  mean,  Mr.  Brief,' 
corrected  the  Idiot,  'man's  daughter.  But 
tell  me,  is  he  a  pupil  of  Mrs.  Eddy  herself?' 

"  'Yes,  he's  a  graduate  of  the  Massachu- 
setts Metaphysical  College.' 

;<  'Of  what?  You've  got  the  wrong  name, 
Mr.  Brief — it  should  be  the  Massachusetts 
Institute  of  Necrology,'  and  then  the  Idiot 
gazed  triumphantly  around  at  the  other 
guests. 

"There,  Mr.  Loomis,  how  does  that  strike 
you?" 

"Admirable,  Mr.  Bangs,  admirable;  you 
couldn't  have  done  it  worse  with  a  pen. 
That  will  do,  Mr.  Bangs,  you  may  take  your 
seat." 

"And  now,  may  it  please  the  court,"  said 
Loomis,  turning  to  address  Mark  Twain, 
Herford  and  myself,  "the  prosecution  will 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  79 

rest  its  case.  The  defence  can  now  present 
their  evidence." 

Therewith  he  sat  down. 

"One  moment,  Mr.  Loomis,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  holding  up  his  hand,  "y°ii  have  for- 
gotten something — how  about  the  other  de- 
fendant?" 

Loomis  turned  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
Professor,  who  was  crouched  down  in  a 
timid  heap  on  the  far  side  of  his  counsel, 
in  the  effort  to  escape  notice. 

"By  George!"  cried  Loomis,  with  a  whis- 
tle of  surprise — "if  I  didn't  forget  him! 
There  he's  sat  like  a  little  lamb  all  the  time 
and  never  said  booh!  A  little  more,  and 
he'd  have  gone  scot  free.  Well,  I  suppose 
we've  got  to  try  him.  But  if  the  court 
pleases,  I  shan't  trouble  to  call  any  wit- 
nesses against  him.  I  shall  simply  demand 
his  conviction  on  the  strength  of  a  few  pas- 
sages from  his  own  works,  which  I  shall 
presently  read.  Professor,  will  you  take  the 
stand?" 

"Humph — humph!"  cried  the  defendant, 
violently  shaking  his  head.  Evidently  he 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          80 


had  determined  that  wild  horses  should  not 
drag  a  word  out  of  him. 

"That's  a  pity,"  said  Loomis,  more  to 
himself  than  to  the  court.  "I  should  have 
liked  to  ask  him  whether  he  thought  the 
fatality  of  its  name  had  had  anything  to  do 
with  the  premature  demise  of  the  'Brandur 
Magazine.'  However,  I  can  get  along  very 
well  as  it  is.  Hand  me  that  book,  the  last 
one  on  the  right.  Thank  you.  Now,  may 
it  please  the  court,  I  hold  here  in  my  hand 
a  work  by  the  accused  entitled  'Aspects  of 
Fiction,'  from  which,  in  a  moment  or  two, 
I  intend  to  read  a  few  passages.  I  may 
state,  however,  in  passing,  that  this  is  only 
one  of  some  thirty  volumes  by  this  delin- 
quent. But  I  do  not  wish  unduly  to  poison 
the  minds  of  the  jury  against  him,  so  I  will 
not  lay  stress  on  this  point.  Indeed,  I 
would  not  mention  it  were  not  the  majority 
of  these  books  works  of  fiction,  and  it  is  for 
them  that  the  accused  is  on  trial.  What  I 
am  now  about  to  read  to  the  court  is  from 
page  142,  and  is  part  of  an  essay  called  'The 
Gift  of  Story-telling.'  It  is  an  admirable 
statement  of  the  case  against  the  author;  in- 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  81 

deed,  far  better  than  I  could  hope  to  make. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  an  admirable  piece 
of  literary  work,  and  were  it  not  possessed 
of  the  fatal  boomerang  quality,  the  writer 
of  it  would  have  every  reason  to  feel  proud. 
This  is  what  he  himself  says  of  those  who 
can't  write  fiction,  yet  insist  upon  doing  it: 

;'  'It  is  this  native  faculty  of  narrative 
which  the  writer  of  fiction  must  needs  have 
as  a  condition  precedent' — mark  the  words 
— 'to  the  practice  of  his  craft,  and  without 
some  small  portion  of  which' — the  italics 
are  mine — 'the  conscious  art  of  the  most 
highly  trained  novelist  is  of  no  avail. 

"  'This  gift  of  story-telling  can  exist  inde- 
pendently of  any  other  faculty.  It  may  be 
all  that  its  possessor  has.  He  might  be 
wholly  without  any  of  the  qualifications  of 
the  literator;  he  might  lack  education  and 
intelligence;  he  might  have  no  knowledge 
of  the  world,  no  experience  of  life,  and  no 
insight  into  character;  he  might  be  devoid 
of  style,  and  even  of  grammar — all  these 
deficiencies  are  as  nothing  if  only  he  have 
the  gift  of  story-telling.  Without  that  he 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          82 

may  have  all  the  other  qualifications,  and 
still  fail  as  a  writer  of  fiction.'  " 

After  he  had  finshed  reading  this  state- 
ment of  the  defendant's  literary  creed,  for 
several  moments  Loomis  stood,  regarding 
his  victim  fixedly. 

"In  view  of  what  I  have  just  read,"  he 
said  at  length,  in  solemn  manner,  "I  would 
ask  the  accused  one  question :  Why  did  you 
write  'Vignettes  of  Manhattan'?" 

With  finger  pointed  threateningly  at  the 
crouching  defendant,  Loomis  stood,  like  an 
accusing  nemesis,  holding  the  frightened 
author  with  his  relentless  eye. 

"He  gives  no  answer,  nor,  I  suppose,  will 
he  give  answer  to  another  question  which 
I  shall  ask  him.  In  an  essay  on  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson  in  the  same  volume  he 
makes  this  statement:  'I  recall  the  courtesy 
and  frankness  with  which  he  gave  me  his 
opinion  of  a  tale  of  mine  he  happened  to 
have  read  recently.'  Mr.  Matthews,  what 
did  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  say?" 

Every  eye  in  the  room  was  fixed  expect- 
antly on  the  defendant,  but  the  poor  fright- 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  83 

ened  creature  was  incapable  of  speech:  he 
could  not  have  replied  had  he  wished  to. 

"I  have  finished,"   said   Loomis,  simply, 
and  he  sat  down. 

"Mr.  Gordon,"  said  Mark  Twain,  "the  de- 
fence will  now  be  heard." 

Slowly,  reluctantly,  the  defendant's  law- 
yer rose. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  he  began,  in  a 
low,  hesitating  voice,  "I  find  myself  in  the 
most  embarrassing  situation  of  my  life.  I 
was  retained  to  defend  these  two  writers 
against  what  I  considered  a  most  unjust 
charge.  Since  coming  into  court,  however, 
my  opinion  has  undergone  a  vital  change.  I 
now  see  them  in  their  true  colors,  and  con- 
science forces  me  to  withdraw  from  the  case 
at  the  eleventh  hour,  painful  as  it  is  to  me. 
I,  therefore,  ask  the  court  to  excuse  me." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  pay  tribute  to 
the  courage  of  this  man,  self-confessed  poet 
though  he  was.  In  a  few  appropriate 
words,  therefore,  Mark  Twain  released  him 
from  his  duties,  and  without  even  a  glance 
at  his  former  clients,  he  passed  through  the 
silent  rows  of  spectators  and  from  our 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          84 

sight.  Then  arose  the  question  of  the  fur- 
ther conduct  of  the  case :  could  a  fresh  law- 
yer be  introduced  at  this  stage  to  defend 
the  accused,  or  must  the  whole  thing  be  be- 
gun over  again?  At  last,  however,  a  com- 
promise was  effected,  with  the  approval  of 
the  two  defendants:  in  order  that  prosecu- 
tion and  defence  might  stand  on  an  equal- 
ity, it  was  determined  to  submit  the  case  to 
the  jury  without  argument  on  either  side. 
Accordingly  at  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
this  was  done,  and  the  tv/elve  men  retired 
to  deliberate  upon  the  evidence.  For  a 
long  time  it  looked  as  though  they  would 
fail  to  reach  a  verdict.  Indeed,  darkness 
had  fallen,  and  we  had  about  begun  to  con- 
sider the  advisability  of  having  them  locked 
up  for  the  night,  when  a  messenger  came 
to  inform  us  that  an  agreement  had  at  last 
been  reached.  Accordingly  we  returned  to 
the  court-room,  and  the  defendants  were 
brought  in,  the  Professor  in  a  half-fainting 
condition  of  fright.  Then,  to  our  utter 
amazement,  the  following  verdict  was  de- 
livered: Guilty  in  each  instance  of  Icse 


BANGS  AND  MATTHEWS  85 

•  ^ v -  -  „_    •  ^_     N^__     •      ^    • •  -^_,  v_  A, *-^__ -  V ^"^ .-*--_--^>_ 

majestc  to  the  cause  of  letters  in  the  second 
degree,  with  a  recommendation  to  mercy. 

So  surprised  was  Mark  Twain  that  he 
made  the  foreman  repeat  his  words. 

"I  think  we  had  better  remand  them  for 
sentence,  don't  you?"  he  said,  turning  to 
Herford  and  myself.  "I  wasn't  expecting 
a  miscarriage  of  justice  of  that  sort." 

"It  was  that  darned  plumber,  I'm  cer- 
tain!" said  Herford;  "he  laughed  at  one  of 
Bangs's  jokes." 

"The  prisoners  are  remanded  for  sen- 
tence at  the  next  session  of  court,"  an- 
nounced Mark  Twain,  rising. 

Thereupon  the  two  authors,  still  dazed 
at  the  unexpectedness  of  their  escape,  were 
led  away  by  court  officers  to  await  the  im- 
posing of  sentence.  As  the  Professor 
passed  us  he  turned  to  his  companion  in 
crime  and  gave  voice  to  the  enigmatic  ex- 
clamation, "Tinkeedoodledum!" — the  first 
word  he  had  spoken  since  giving  utterance 
to  "Ouch !"  at  the  beginning  of  the  trial. 


IV.  Wards  in  Chancery 

Upon  the  trial  of  Mary  Augusta 
Ward  for  the  commission  of  "  Elea- 
nor "  and  other  crimes, 

Held,  That  another  and  compara- 
tively innocent  person  whose  arrest 
is  due  merely  to  identity  of  her  sur- 
name with  that  of  the  defendant  may 
be  dismissed  with  a  reprimand  ;  also 
that 

A  literary  crime  maybe  allowed  to 
go  unpunished  in  order  to  avoid  in- 
ternational complications. 

Nol.  Pros,  ordered  accordingly 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  87 

THEREFORE,  John  Kendrick  Bangs," 
said  Mark  Twain,  addressing  the  con- 
victed humorist,  "the  decision  of  the  court 
is  that  you  be  taken  from  this  place  and 
confined  in  the  State  institution  at  Mattea- 
wan  for  the  criminal  insane  until  such  time 
as  you  shall  have  been  pronounced  recov- 
ered from  your  facetious  hallucinations. 
Remove  the  prisoner." 

"One  moment,  your  honor!"  cried  Bangs 
anxiously.  "Is  that  the  asylum  where  the 
inmates  thought  I  had  been  reporting  their 
conversation?  My  life  wouldn't  be  worth 
thirty  cents  there." 

"No,  that  is  not  the  place,"  replied  Mark 
Twain.  "But  before  you  go  let  me  give 
you  one  piece  of  advice :  although  birds  of  a 
feather  flock  together,  remember  when  you 
have  reached  your  destination  that  it  is  not 
a  wise  thing  to  utilize  that  feather  as  a  quill 
for  writing.  Now  go." 

Without  further  attempt  at  parley,  the 
author  of  thirty-three  crimes  turned  and 
followed  the  court  officer  from  the  room, 
preserving  to  the  very  end  the  jaunty,  con- 
fident air  which  he  had  worn  since  the  be- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          88 

ginning  of  the  trial.  It  was  impossible  alto- 
gether to  suppress  a  feeling  of  misplaced 
sympathy  with  him.  There  was,  however, 
but  little  time  for  the  indulgence  of  this 
weakness,  as  the  presiding  judge  had  al- 
ready begun  to  address  the  Professor  be- 
fore his  partner  in  crime  had  vanished  from 
sight. 

"And  now,  James  Brander  Matthews," 
he  said,  sternly  regarding  the  frightened 
author,  "it  becomes  my  duty  to  announce 
the  decision  of  the  court  in  your  case.  Al- 
though we  feel  that  in  some  respects  you 
are  as  guilty  as  the  writer  just  sentenced, 
yet  in  view  of  the  fact  that  it  is  impossible 
to  conceive  that  many  people  have  really 
rear!  your  stories,  their  malevolent  in- 
fluence thus  being  confined  to  the  editor 
who  published  them  and  to  one  or  two 
other  unimportant  persons,  we  have  de- 
cided to  release  you  under  bonds  of  $10  for 
good  behavior.  Are  you  prepared  to  fur- 
nish such  a  bond?" 

"Yes,  your  honor,  that  is  just  the  sum  a 
magazine  owes  me  for  a  serial  I  wrote  for 
them.  I'll  ask  them  to  pay  me  at  once." 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  89 

Mark  Twain  groaned. 

"Good  heavens!  have  you  no  perception  of 
the  seriousness  of  your  position,  that  you 
talk  about  a  serial?  If  that  story  appears, 
you  are  a  lost  man.  I  shall,  therefore,  com- 
mit you  until  you  have  secured  a  bond  from 
some  other  source.  Remember,  though,  no 
serials,  no  'vignettes,'  no  'royal  marines.' 
Do  you  understand?" 

The  Professor  nodded. 

"Remove  him,"  ordered  Mark  Twain, 
and  the  Professor  was  led  away  to  tempo- 
rary confinement. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  state  at  this 
point  that  a  few  hours  later  the  bond  for 
his  good  behavior  was  furnished  by  one  of 
his  Bookworm  colleagues,  who  had  indig- 
nantly denounced  the  "Guillotine"  in  the 
journal  of  which  he  chanced  to  be  the  edi- 
tor, regardless  of  the  danger  he  himself  ran 
of  not  becoming  its  victim. 

The  disposition  here  recorded  of  the  cases 
of  Bangs  and  the  Professor  had  taken  place 
at  the  opening  of  the  third  sitting  of  the  Lit- 
erary Emergency  Court,  preliminary  to  the 
trial  of  the  fourth  offender  on  our  lists. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          go 

This  was  a  woman,  and  it  was  with  consid- 
erable trepidation,  I  confess,  that  we  looked 
forward  to  the  trial,  knowing  how  deeply 
rooted  in  the  American  breast  is  the  regard 
for  woman,  even  though  guilty  of  such 
crimes  as  "Robert  Elsmere"  and  "Eleanor." 
Moreover,  the  present  case,  of  course,  was 
complicated  by  questions  of  interna- 
tional law ;  but  on  the  principle  that  a  crime 
is  punishable  in  the  country  in  which  it 
is  committed,  we  had  decided  to  proceed 
with  the  trial  on  the  charge  solely  of  her 
American  copyrights,  trusting  to  the  good 
sense  of  the  English  people  not  to  quibble 
about  so  trivial  a  detail  as  nationality  in 
so  important  a  matter.  Besides,  did  we 
allow  this  opportunity  to  bring  her  to  jus- 
tice to  escape  us,  chance  could  hardly  be 
counted  on  to  deliver  her  into  our  hands  a 
second  time. 

"Bring  in  the  prisoner,"  said  Mark  Twain 
to  one  of  the  officers. 

Instead  of  obeying,  the  man  advanced 
and  whispered  something  to  him,  so  low 
that  even  I  could  not  hear  it. 

"Great  heavens!"  exclaimed  Mark  Twain, 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  91 

turning  to  me,  "he  says  there  are  two  of 
them." 

"Twins?"  asked  Herford. 

"I  don't  think  so,  sir,"  replied  the  atten- 
dant; "leastwise,  they  don't  look  like  it. 
One  of  'em's  tall  and  thin  like,  and  the 
other's  short  and  stout.  They've  been  in 
the  same  cell  since  yesterday." 

"Man  or  woman?"  again  inquired  Her- 
ford. 

"Oh,  a  female,  your  honor!  Which  one 
shall  I  bring  in  first?" 

Mark  Twain  turned  toward  me  inquir- 
ingly. 

"We'd  better  have  them  both  in,  hadn't 
we?"  I  said.  "That's  the  quickest  way  out 
of  the  difficulty." 

"Bring  in  both,  then,"  ordered  the  presid- 
ing judge ;  and  we  settled  back  in  our  seats 
to  await  the  solution  of  the  mystery. 

"Two  women  shall  be  in  one  cell," 
quoted  Herford  irreverently,  "one  of  them 
shall  be  taken  and  the  other  left.  Great 
Scott!" 

This  exclamation  was  caused  by  the  ap- 
pearance in  the  doorway  leading  to  the 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          92 

prisoners'  quarters  of  a  rather  tall,  severe- 
looking  female  figure,  dressed  in  black  and 
wearing  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 

'"The  Gates  Ajar'!"  cried  Mark  Twain. 
"I  might  have  known." 

Closely  following  the  tall  one  came  her 
whom  we  were  expecting,  the  "other"  twin, 
as  Herford  had  styled  her,  the  author  of 
"Marcella"  and  "David  Grieve."  In  her 
arms  she  carried  a  number  of  books,  which 
proved  to  be  a  complete  collection  of  her 
works.  All  our  attention,  however,  was 
needed  for  her  companion,  who  was  in  a 
high  state  of  excitement.  Looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  left,  she  advanced  to  the 
enclosure  in  front  of  our  desks,  when  she 
came  to  a  stop  and  stood  regarding  us  with 
flashing  eyes,  struggling  for  speech. 

"What — what  does  this — mean?"  she 
succeeded  at  last  in  ejaculating.  "Why 
am  I  imprisoned  in  this  manner  and  kept 
confined  all  night  in  a  cell  with — with  this 
creature?  What  does  it  mean — tell  me!" 

It  was  evident  that  the  flood-gates  of 
tears  were  about  to  be  set  ajar  unless  pre- 
ventive measures  were  quickly  taken. 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  93 

"Madam,  madam,"  said  Mark  Twain 
deprecatingly,  "I  beg  of  you,  be  calm! 
There  is  some  horrible  mistake  here,  I 
assure  you,  Mrs.  Ward.  It  was  never  in- 
tended that  you  should  be  arrested." 

"I  can't  hear  you !"  was  the  tearful  plaint. 
"I  can't  hear  anything!  Oh  my,  oh  my, 
this  too!" 

"Tell  her  to  take  the  cotton  out  of  her 
ears,  then,"  said  Mark  Twain,  addressing 
Loomis. 

"Take  the  cotton  out  of  your  ears !"  thun- 
dered the  prosecuting  attorney.  The  sec- 
ond attempt  to  make  her  hear  was  success- 
ful. 

"Oh  my,  I  forgot!"  she  exclaimed,  clap- 
ping her  hands  to  her  ears  and  removing 
the  obstruction.  "Now  I  hear  everything. 
I  put  the  cotton  in  because  the  woman  you 
put  me  in  the  cell  with  insisted  on  telling 
me  the  detailed  story  of  'Lady  Rose's 
Daughter.'  My  face  burns  with  shame  at 
the  recollection." 

"I  sympathize  with  your  sensations, 
madam,"  said  Mark  Twain,  "and  I  hope 
you  will  accept  our  apology  for  this  unfor- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          94 

fortunate  accident.  The  similarity  of 
names  must  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  the 
whole  trouble." 

By  this  time,  with  the  unexpected  recov- 
ery of  her  hearing  and  the  prospect  of  im- 
mediate release,  the  purveyor  of  celestial 
literature  had  begun  somewhat  to  recover 
her  usual  equanimity. 

"And  now,  Mrs.  Ward,"  said  Mark 
Twain  encouragingly,  "will  you  kindly  ex- 
plain to  the  court  how  and  when  you  were 
arrested?" 

"Well,yourhonour,"  replied  the  tall  lady, 
"there  is  very  little  to  tell.  I  had  come 
down  to  this  wicked  city  from  Boston  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  had  gone  to  my  usual  tem- 
perance hotel.  Yesterday  as  I  was  sitting 
in  my  room,  drinking  a  glass  of  sarsaparilla 
and  writing  on  my  new  book,  'The  Gates 
Unhinged,'  suddenly  a  young  man  threw 
open  the  door  and  advanced  toward  me. 

"  'Are  you  Mrs.  Ward?'  he  inquired 
fiercely. 

"  'Yes,  I  am  Mrs.  Ward,'  I  replied,  'Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  Ward.  But  by 
what  right ' 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  95 

"  'You  are  arrested  for  the  crime  of 
"Robert  Elsmere," '  he  interrupted,  'come 
along !' 

"In  vain  I  protested  that  I  was  not  the 
person  he  wanted ;  that  I  had  never  written 
so  wicked  a  book — he  would  not  listen  to  a 
word,  but  forced  me  to  come  with  him  to 
this  place,  where  they  locked  me  in  with 
that  woman  who  insisted  on  telling  me  the 
story  of  'Lady  Rose's  Daughter.'  " 

"Well,  Mrs.  Ward,"  said  Mark  Twain, 
"I  can  only  repeat  my  apology  and  assure 
you  that  no  such  inhuman  punishment  was 
intended.  Indeed,  your  arrest  was  alto- 
gether a  mistake.  Since  you  are  here, 
however,  I  will  take  this  opportunity  of 
telling  you  that  as  a  matter  of  fact  we  did 
examine  into  your  record,  and  that  al- 
though there  was  nothing  found — er — de- 
serving of  an  indictment,  yet  there  are  one 
or  two  minor  points  of  which  the  court 
desires  to  warn  you,  purely  in  a  friendly 
way,  you  understand.  Mr.  Loomis,  I  think 
you  have  the  notes  to  which  I  refer.  Will 
you  please  convey  the  court's  admonition 
to  the  lady  at  the  bar." 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          96 

"Madam,"  said  Loomis,  rising,  "I  am,  as 
you  see,  almost  young  enough  to  be  your 
bus — your  son,  so  that  it  is  with  a  certain 
reluctance  that  I  fulfill  the  court's  com- 
mand. However,  it  is  my  duty  to  obey. 
The  points  in  your  writings  referred  to  by 
his  honour  are  relatively  unimportant,  but  of 
course  nothing  can  be  deemed  absolutely 
unimportant  in  works  dealing  with  heaven 
and  its  daily  life.  Information  regarding 
no  other  place  of  which  I  can  think,  with  one 
exception,  is  of  such  vital  interest.  How- 
ever, it  is  not  primarily  of  the  celestial  side 
of  your  writings  that  I  wish  to  speak,  but 
of  the  terrestrial,  save  that  we  should  like 
to  have  your  assurance  that  the  marriage  in 
heaven  of  the  young  lady  in  'The  Gates 
Beyond'  with  the  husband  of  another 
woman  is  borne  out  by  your  other  revela- 
tions, so  that  no  one  may  be  disappointed 
in  his  or  her  hopes  of  getting  a  divorce  after 
life's  fitful  dream.  You  got  your  informa- 
tion straight,  did  you?" 

"You  may  rest  perfectly  assured  on  that 
point,"  was  the  reply;  "although  I  do  not 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  97 

quite  approve  of  your  flippant  way  of  put- 
ing  it." 

"Your  assurance  will  be  welcome,  Mrs. 
Ward,"  said  the  prosecuting  attorney 
gravely,  "to  thousands  of  people  through- 
out the  country,  I  am  sure.  However,  it  is 
of  other  matters  that  I  desire  to  speak. 
From  time  to  time  in  your  writings  you 
have  allowed,  doubtless  unwittingly,  cer- 
tain expressions  of  a  vulgar  nature  to  slip 
in,  which,  we  fear,  may  tend  to  tarnish  the 
minds  of  the  members  of  the  Epworth 
League  and  the  King's  Daughters  who  may 
chance  upon  them.  Thus,  for  instance,  on 
page  59  of  'The  Gates  Ajar,'  you  say: 
'Uncle  Forceythe  wanted  mission-work, 
and  mission-work  he  found  here  (in  Kan- 
sas) with — I  should  say  with  a  vengeance, 
if  the  expression  were  exactly  suited  to  an 
elegantly  constructed  and  reflective  jour- 
nal.' Of  course,  Mrs.  Ward,  I  have  but  to 
read  this  paragraph  for  you  to  see  its  im- 
propriety— such  an  expression  has  no  place, 
even  apologetically,  in  an  elegantly  con- 
structed and  reflective  journal." 

"You  are   right,   Mr.   Loomis,"   said   the 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE          98 

authoress;  "I  shall  see  that  it  does  not 
occur  in  the  next  edition.  Is  there  any- 
thing more?" 

"Yes,  madam,  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  is ; 
this  time  quite  a  serious  matter.  The 
members  of  the  court  have  deeply  regretted 
to  see  that  your  influence  has  been  thrown 
in  favor  of  hasty  and  ill-considered  mar- 
riages, instead  of  tending  to  inculcate  in 
young  people  the  wisdom  of  delay  and 
prayerful  consideration  in  such  matters. 
Thus,  on  page  21  of  'The  Gates  Between/ 
you  allow  your  hero  to  say:  'Be  that  as  it 
may,  beyond  my  reach  for  yet  another  year 
she  did  remain.  Gently  as  she  inclined 
toward  me,  to  love  she  made  no  haste.' 
Yet  five  pages  later  on  we  find  this  sensa- 
tional announcement:  'A  year  from  the 
time  of  my  most  blessed  accident  beside 
the  trout-brook — in  one  year  and  two 
months  from  that  day — my  lady  and  I  were 
married/  Mrs.  Ward,  can  you  not  make 
that  seven  years?" 

"Well,  I  might,"  she  replied,  doubtfully. 
"  Suppose,  though,  we  compromise  on  five 
years?" 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  99 

"Well,  I  think  that  will  do,"  said  Loomis ; 
"but  don't  forget  the  two  months." 

"No,  sir,  I  won't." 

"And  now,  if  the  court  pleases,  I  have 
finished  with  the  present  writer,  and  unless 
your  honours  desire  to  examine  her  I  shall 
excuse  her." 

"One  moment,  Mrs.  Ward,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  "I  should  like  to  ask  you  a  question. 
Did  you  write  'The  Confessions  of  a 
Wife'?" 

"Mr.  Clemens,"  was  the  stiff  reply,  "I  am 
surprised  that  you  should  ask  me  this  ques- 
tion in  open  court,  as  you  must  remember 
when  you  first  told  me  you  were  writing 
such  a  story  I  suggested  for  it  the  name 
'True  Love  Ajar.' " 

For  the  first  time  in  my  experience  Mark 
Twain  was  embarrassed.  Somewhat  sharp- 
ly he  replied: 

"Madam,  you  seem  to  have  preserving 
on  your  mind.  You  are  excused,  but  do 
not  leave  the  room ;  we  may  want  you  as  a 
witness.  Call  the  case." 

"Mary  Augusta  Ward  to  the  bar!"  rang 
out  through  the  room. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        100 

With  a  start  the  great  English  authoress 
awoke  from  the  perusal  of  "  David  Grieve  " 
and  rose  to  her  feet. 

"You  have  not  heard  the  indictment 
read,  I  believe,"  said  Mark  Twain. 

"No." 

"Do  you  wish  to  hear  it?" 

"No." 

"Have  you  counsel  to  defend  you,  or 
shall  we  assign  you  counsel?" 

"Neither — I  do  not  recognize  your  right 
to  try  me.  Do  you  realize  who  I  am?" 

"I  think  so,  madam." 

"I  am  Mrs. — Humphry — Ward,  author 
of  'Marcella,'  'Robert  Elsmere,'  'Sir  George 
Tressady,'  'Eleanor,'  and  other  novels." 

"You  admit  it,  then?" 

The  prisoner  regarded  him  in  speechless 
astonishment. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand  me,  sir — 
I  am  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward,  niece  of  Mat- 
thew Arnold." 

"Madam,"  replied  Mark  Twain,  "you 
force  me  to  remind  you  of  a  remark  which 
your  uncle  once  made.  'If  it  had  been  in- 
tended that  there  should  be  a  novelist  in 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  101 

our  family,'  said  the  great  critic,  'I  should 
have  been  the  novelist.'  He  made  that  re- 
mark late  in  life,  too." 

Mrs.  Ward  drew  herself  up  stiffly  and  an 
angry  flush  overspread  her  face. 

"Be  that  as  it  may,"  she  said,  with  great 
dignity,  "I  refuse  to  discuss  the  matter 
with  you.  I  am  an  English  subject,  and  I 
have  appealed  to  my  ambassador  at  Wash- 
ington. You  shall  smart  for  this  outrage." 

"Perhaps — later  on.  But  at  present  I 
shall  have  to  ask  you  to  plead  to,  the  indict- 
ment. Are  you  guilty  or  innocent  of  the 
crime  of  lese  niajcstc  to  the  cause  of  letters? 
What  say  you?" 

"I  refuse  to  plead." 

"Enter  a  plea  of  not  guilty.  Proceed  to 
draw  the  jury,  Mr.  Loomis.  You  have  the 
special  panel  of  Italians  for  'Eleanor,'  I 
suppose." 

"Yes,  sir.     I  will  have  the  names  called." 

Under  the  circumstances  there  was,  of 
course,  little  difficulty  experienced  in  secur- 
ing twelve  men  to  try  the  accused,  as  none 
of  them  was  challenged.  All  of  them  were 
of  Italian  parentage  or  birth,  and  a  more 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        102 


bloodthirsty  looking  set  of  men  it  would  be 
hard  to  find.  It  was  evident  that  they  had 
read  "Eleanor." 

"Now,  Mr.  Loomis,  are  you  ready  to 
begin?"  asked  Mark  Twain  when  the  last 
juryman  had  taken  his  seat. 

Before  Loomis  could  reply,  however,  a 
court  attendant  pushed  his  way  to  the  front 
and  handed  the  presiding  judge  a  card.  He 
glanced  at  it,  and  then  so  far  forgot  himself 
as  to  whistle.  Then  he  held  it  out  for  me 
to  see. 

"Hall  Caine"  was  the  name  that  met  my 
astonished  eyes.  But  there  was  no  time 
for  comment,  for  the  man  who  looked  like 
Shakespeare  was  rapidly  advancing  toward 
us,  regardless  of  the  angry  murmurs  of  the 
crowd. 

"Order  in  the  court!" 

As  the  newcomer  ascended  the  steps  of 
the  dais  on  which  were  our  chairs,  Mark 
Twain  rose  to  receive  him,  and  I,  of  course, 
did  likewise.  Herford,  on  the  other  hand, 
remained  immovable  in  his  chair,  busied 
with  a  sketch  of  Cain  killing  his  brother 
Abel. 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  103 

"  We  are  much  honoured  by  this  visit,  Sir 
Hall,"  said  Mark  Twain,  extending  his 
hand  to  the  lord  of  Greeba  Castle.  "Let 
me  present  my  colleagues." 

This,  of  course,  forced  Herford  to  rise, 
which  he  did  with  a  very  bad  grace. 

"Permit  a  slight  correction  on  my  part, 
Mr.  Clemens,"  said  the  great  novelist,  as  he 
prepared  to  seat  himself  in  the  cushioned 
chair  which  had  been  placed  for  him  be- 
tween Mark  Twain's  and  mine.  "I  am 
without  title — as  yet." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Mark  Twain,  with  a 
bow. 

"Don't  mention  it,"  replied  the  Manx- 
man graciously,  as  he  settled  himself  be- 
tween us.  "Ah,  Mr.  Clemens,  this  is  a  most 
auspicious  occasion.  You  are  doing  a 
noble  work,  sir,  a  noble  work." 

"We  think  so,  Sir — Mr.  Caine;  we  think 
so.  But  our  labors  have  only  just  begun. 
Just  wait  until  you  see  whom  we  bring  to 
trial  next  time.  We  had  hardly  dared  to 
hope,  though,  to  induce  you  to  attend  our 
sittings." 

"I  was  at  the  photographer's  when  word 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        104 

reached  me  of  to-day's  session,"  was  the 
reply;  "but  despite  the  fact  that  I  had  only 
had  seventeen  postures  taken,  I  imme- 
diately broke  off  and  hurried  around  to 
urge  you  to  prosecute  this  case  relentlessly. 
The  slightest  admixture  of  mercy  would 
here  be  out  of  place.  Why,  to  show  you 
the  enormity  of  this  writer's  crimes,  I  need 
only  mention  the  fact  that  several  of  her 
novels  have  sold  almost  as  extensively  as 
my  own." 

"No — is  it  as  bad  as  that?"  cried  Mark 
Tv/ain,  incredulously.  "Perhaps  later  you 
yourself  will  take  the  stand  against  her?" 

"No,  no!  People  would  say  that  I  was 
actuated  by  jealousy.  Of  course,  such  a 
thing  is  as  foolish  as  though  Alfred  Austin 
were  accused  of  being  jealous  of  Kipling — 
I  mean  the  other  way  round — but  you  know 
how  ready  the  world  is  to  impute  unworthy 
motives.  But,  come,  I  must  no  longer  in- 
terrupt the  trial.  Pray  continue,  and  from 
time  to  time  I  will  give  you  the  benefit  of 
my  suggestions." 

"Thank  you.  But  pardon  me  one  mo- 
ment." 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  105 

Thereupon  Mark  Twain  wrote  a  few 
words  on  a  slip  of  paper,  folded  it,  and 
handed  it  to  an  officer  without  showing  it 
either  to  Herford  or  myself. 

"Now,  Mr.  Loomis,"  he  said,  "please  con- 
tinue the  case." 

I  glanced  at  Herford's  sketch.  He  had 
finished  it,  and  underneath  were  the  words : 
"And  Caine  said,  My  punishment  is  greater 
than  I  can  bear." 

What  did  Herford  mean  by  that? 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  began  Loomis 
slowly,  "I  shall  make  no  speech  in  opening 
this  case;  I  shall  let  it  speak  for  itself;  it  is 
perfectly  able  to.  If  the  accused  is  agree- 
able, however,  I  should  like  to  question  her 
in  regard  to  a  few  points  in  her  writings." 

Loomis  paused  for  a  reply,  but  none  was 
forthcoming. 

"Do  you  hear,  Mrs.  Ward?"  said  Mark 
Twain.  "The  prosecuting  attorney  wishes 
to  know  whether  you  are  willing  to  go  on 
the  stand." 

Slowly  the  authoress  raised  her  eyes 
from  the  pages  of  "Helbeck  of  Bannisdale" 
to  the  face  of  the  presiding  judge. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        106 

"I  have  announced  once  and  for  all  that  I 
refuse  to  recognize  your  right  to  try  me," 
she  said  with  dignity.  "Kindly  permit  me 
to  read  undisturbed." 

Mark  Twain  scratched  his  head  in  per- 
plexity, and  leaned  across  in  front  of  our 
distinguished  visitor  to  consult  with  me. 

"I  declare,  I'm  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with 
this  woman,"  he  said  helplessly.  "Can  we 
go  on  and  condemn  her  unheard?  What 
do  you  think?" 

"Tut,  tut!"  interrupted  Caine  impa- 
tiently, "hasn't  she  made  herself  heard 
enough  all  these  years?  She's  trying  to 
bluff  you.  She  knows  it's  her  only  chance." 

"What  do  you  think  about  it,  Herford?" 

"Well,"  replied  that  individual  quietly, 
"one  thing's  certain — dead  women  write  no 
tales." 

"Continue,  Mr.  Loomis,"  said  Mark 
Twain. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Loomis, 
in  obedience  to  the  command,  "although  the 
refusal  of  the  accused  to  take  the  stand  is 
regrettable,  chiefly  for  the  reason  that  we 
cannot  now  hope  to  learn  what  great  per- 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  107 

— ^ — <^~  -•-*-•— ---^~ — ^—  ^ — ^ — -^—  •£ — -^ — "-^ — ^~ — ^~ — ^ — ^ — ^~ — "-^ 

sonage  of  the  past  she  is  the  reincarnation 
of,  yet  it  simplifies  the  matter  surprisingly. 
Indeed,  in  view  of  the  intelligence  of  the 
present  jury,  it  would  be  safe,  I  feel  sure,  to 
submit  the  case  to  them  on  the  ground  of 
'Eleanor'  alone.  Still,  to  do  so  would  not 
be  to  do  my  full  duty.  I  shall,  therefore, 
beg  the  indulgence  of  the  court  while  I 
read  one  or  two  short  extracts  from  the 
writings  of  the  accused,  that  the  jury  may 
form  some  idea  as  to  the  justice  of  the  in- 
dictment. I  think,  also,  such  a  proceeding 
will  set  us  right  in  the  eyes  of  posterity. 
For  this  purpose  I  have  selected  at  random 
one  or  two  passages  from  the  pages  of 
'Robert  Elsmere'  leading  up  to  and  during 
the  solicitation  of  Robert  for  Catherine's 
love.  It  was  a  strenous  time — so  stren- 
uous, indeed,  that  the  chronicler  of  their 
wooing  became  somewhat  confused  in  her 
use  of  the  English  language.  At  the  be- 
ginning of  this  duel  of  love,  we  are  in- 
formed: 'And  she  (Catherine)  turned  to 
him  deadly  pale,  the  faintest,  sweetest 
smile  on  her  lips.'  In  view  of  that  'deadly' 
paleness,  it  never  surprised  me  that  Robert 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        108 

hesitated  thirty  pages  longer  with  his  pro- 
posal. But  at  last  it  came,  that  beautiful 
declaration  of  love  which  lasts  for  so  many 
hours  and  which  can  be  unreservedly  and 
verbatim  recommended  to  young  men  con- 
templating a  proposal  of  marriage  in  a 
storm  on  the  mountain-side.  'Send  me  out 
to  the  work  of  life  maimed  and  sorrowful, 
or  send  me  out  your  knight,  your  posses- 
sion, pledged.'  To  be  sure,  this  is  somewhat 
suggestive  of  a  transaction  at  the  pawn- 
broker's, but,  of  course,  that  was  uninten- 
tional. I  have  read  this  passage  to  you, 
however,  not  primarily  for  its  own  sake, 
touching  though  it  be,  but  that  it 
might  serve  as  a  standard  of  comparison, 
as  they  say  in  trials  where  questions  of 
handwriting  are  involved,  with  the  beauti- 
ful extract  which  I  am  now  about  to  read. 
Kindly  give  me  your  undivided  attention. 
'She  is  a  tall,  grave  woman,  with  serious 
eyes  and  dead-brown  hair,  the  shade  of 
withered  leaves  in  autumn,  with  a  sad, 
beautiful  face.  It  is  the  face  of  one  who 
has  suffered  and  been  patient;  who,  from 
the  depths  of  a  noble,  selfless  nature,  looks 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  109 

out  upon  the  world  with  mild  eyes  of  char- 
ity ;  a  woman,  yet  a  girl  in  years,  whom  one 
termed  his  pearl  among  women.'  " 

Hardly  had  Loomis  ceased  to  read  before 
Mrs.  Ward  was  on  her  feet. 

"I  protest,"  she  exclaimed,  her  voice 
shaking  with  emotion,  "I  protest  against 
the  practice  of  the  prosecuting  attorney  to 
read  extracts  from  my  works  dissociated 
from  the  context.  It  is  not  fair  to  me. 
Who  would  pretend  to  judge  'Hamlet' 
from  one  scene,  or  the  'Divine  Comedy' 
from  one  canto?  That  passage  must  be 
read  in  connection  with  the  whole  mosaic 
of  which  it  is  a  part." 

"Madam,"  said  Loomis  quietly,  at  the 
close  of  this  outbreak,  "you  declared  at  the 
beginning  of  the  trial  that  you  would  refuse 
to  defend  yourself.  Had  you  stuck  to  this 
decision  you  would  have  been  wise.  I  did 
not  say  that  the  extract  which  I  just  read 
was  from  your  pen.  It  was  not.  What 
would  you  say  did  I  tell  you  that  it  was 
from  the  pen  of  that  eminent  novelist,  Hall 
Caine?  I  did  not  think  you  would  fall  into 
the  trap  so  easily." 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE         no 


For  a  moment  there  was  silence  in  the 
room.  Then  some  one  in  the  rear  laughed, 
and  a  ripple  of  mirth  swept  over  the  assem- 
bly. 

"Silence  in  the  court!" 

Hall  Caine  was  bursting  with  rage. 

"This  is  an  outrage !"  he  exclaimed,  as 
soon  as  he  could  find  words  to  express  his 
feelings,  "an  unpardonable  impertinence ! 
To  impute  my  work  to  the  author  of  'David 
Grieve' !  Mr.  Clemens,  I  demand  an 
apology  for  this  insult,  or  I  shall  leave  the 
court-room." 

"One  moment,  one  moment,  Mr.  Caine!" 
said  Mark  Twain  in  his  most  soothing  man- 
ner. "Be  calm,  I  beg  of  you.  Surely  you 
must  see  that  this  insult  was  not  contem- 
plated. It  was  the  result  solely  of  youthful 
indiscretion  on  the  part  of  the  prosecuting 
attorney.  You  will  have  ample  opportu- 
nity to  protest  openly,  ample  opportunity. 
But,  as  you  must  realize,  this  is  not  the 
proper  time  for  it.  We  must  first  finish 
this  trial.  Have  but  a  little  patience." 

It  was  a  difficult  matter  to  quiet  the  Lord 
of  the  Castle,  but  at  last,  on  Mark  Twain's 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  in 

repeated  assurance  that  the  offended  author 
would  enjoy  occasion  to  protest  publicly 
against  this  unauthorized  use  of  his  name, 
the  great  man  consented  to  waive  the  mat- 
ter for  the  present.  Mark  Twain  then  in- 
structed Loomis  to  continue  the  trial. 

"I  had  contemplated  calling  a  specialist 
on  vivisection,"  said  Loomis,  addressing 
the  court,  "to  testify  to  Mrs.  Ward's  inhu- 
man treatment  of  Sir  George  Tressady  by 
torturing  him  to  death  by  inches  through 
thirty  pages  and  more,  even  reviving  him  at 
the  moment  when  it  seemed  that  his  suffer- 
ings had  at  last  reached  an  end,  but  in  view 
of  the  strength  of  the  case  already  made 
out  against  her,  I  do  not  feel  that  it  will  be 
necessary  further  to  encroach  on  the  time 
of  the  court  and  of  this  intelligent  jury.  I 
shall,  therefore,  rest  the  case  for  the  state 
with  this  single  admonition :  Remember 
'Eleanor.'  " 

"Do  you  wish  to  call  any  witnesses  for 
the  defence?" 

No  reply. 

"Mrs.  Ward,  do  you  wish  to  call  any  wit- 
nesses for  the  defence?" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        112 

Still  no  reply.  Evidently  all  the  atten- 
tion of  the  accused  was  needed  for  one  of 
the  humorous  scenes  in  "David  Grieve." 

"Do  you  desire  to  address  the  jury,  Mr. 
Loomis?" 

"  No,  your  honour;  I  think  that  will  be 
unnecessary." 

"Well,  then,  it  only  remains  for  me  to 
charge  them.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury, 
you " 

Thus  far  had  Mark  Twain  got  in  his  ad- 
dress when  a  sudden  commotion  at  the  en- 
trance caused  him  to  pause.  A  moment 
later  a  messenger  was  seen  making  his  way 
toward  us.  I  watched  him  with  fascinated 
eyes,  a  premonition  of  the  truth  in  my 
heart. 

"A  message  from  Washington,  sir,"  said 
the  man,  stopping  before  the  presiding 
judge  and  handing  him  a  large,  official  en- 
velope. 

With  trembling  fingers  Mark  Twain  tore 
off  the  cover  and  spread  out  the  contents  to 
view.  This  is  what  met  our  eyes: 

"Mrs.  Ward's  arrest  threatens  to  cause  a 
revolution  among  the  shop-keeping  classes 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  113 

of  London.  Protest  against  her  trial  has 
therefore  been  made  by  the  British  ambas- 
sador. Her  immediate  discharge  from  cus- 
tody is  ordered.  Signed,  The  President  of 
the  United  States." 

There  was  a  sob  beside  me,  and  I  turned 
to  see  a  tear  fall  from  Hall  Caine's  nose. 

"Oh,  what  a  blow  literature  has  suffered 
this  day !"  he  moaned.  "Nothing  else  un- 
der heaven  could  have  saved  her!" 

Mark  Twain  was  the  first  to  recover  his 
presence  of  mind. 

"Let  the  accused  stand  up,"  he  com- 
manded in  a  voice  that  brooked  no  hesita- 
tion. 

"Mary  Augusta  Ward,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing the  surprised  authoress,  "owing  to 
executive  clemency  I  am  forced  herewith  to 
discharge  you  from  custody.  You  may 
leave  the  court." 

For  a  moment  she  made  no  reply. 

"Ah!"  she  cried  at  last.  "Did  I  not  tell 
you  that  England  never  deserted  her  great 
sons  and  daughters?" 

Therewith  she  quickly  gathered  together 
her  complete  works,  and  with  a  glance  of 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        114 

triumph  at  our  dejected  countenances,  she 
turned  and  swept  down  the  aisle  through 
the  rows  of  angry,  threatening  people  and 
disappeared  into  the  street. 

In  a  few  appropriate  words  Mark  Twain 
then  discharged  the  jury,  and,  rising,  he 
started  to  withdraw,  too  disappointed  to 
trust  himself  to  speak.  Herford  and  I  pre- 
pared to  follow  him,  but  Hall  Caine  still 
continued  to  sit,  crushed  by  the  blow  that 
had  fallen,  his  eyes  fixed  on  space.  But 
suddenly  he  aroused  himself  and  rose  to 
leave.  Without  a  word  he  descended  the 
steps  of  the  dais  and  started  toward  the 
exit. 

"One  moment,  there,"  said  an  officer, 
stepping  to  his  side  and  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder,  "you  are  wanted." 

"I  am  wanted — what  do  you  mean?" 
cried  the  novelist,  suddenly  awaking  to  full 
energy. 

"I  hereby  arrest  you  for  the  crime  of  'The 
Christian,'  'The  Eternal  City,'  and  numer- 
ous other  novels.  Come  with  me." 

For  an  instant  it  seemed  as  though  the 
man  who  looked  like  Shakespeare  was 


WARDS  IN  CHANCERY  115 


about  to  make  a  dash  for  Mark  Twain,  who 
had  stopped  to  watch  the  arrest.  But  with 
sudden  self-control  he  forced  down  his  rage 
and  drew  himself  up  with  great  dignity. 

"So,  that  is  the  manner  in  which  you  dis- 
tinguish between  genius  and  its  counterfeit 
in  literature!"  he  said  scathingly.  "For 
this  arrest  your  name  will  go  down  to  pos- 
terity as  that  of  a  vandal.  Lead  on,  gaoler, 
I  submit  to  barbaric  force!" 

That,  then,  was  the  meaning  of  the  writ- 
ing beneath  Herford's  sketch! 


V.    The  Corelli-ing  of  Caine 

Upon  preliminary  examination  of 
Marie  Corelli  and  Hall  Caine 

Quaere.  Whether  two  defendants 
charged  with  divers  like  crimes  and 
misdemeanors  may  be  accorded  im- 
munity from  prosecution  upon  the 
offer  of  each  to  become  State's  Evi- 
dence against  the  other? 

Note.  On  account  of  the  rescue 
of  the  prisoners  by  the  mob  (presu- 
mably for  purposes  of  its  own)  it  was 
deemed  fitting  by  the  Court  that  the 
case  be  Adjourned  sine  die 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  117 

ON  grounds  of  rectitude,  I  disapproved 
strongly  of  the  manner  in  which  Mark 
Twain  had  enticed  Marie  Corelli  into  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  court ;  although  it  was 
impossible  to  suppress  a  feeling  of  gratifi- 
cation that  this  arch-offender  was  at  last 
about  to  be  brought  to  account  for  her  reck- 
less career  of  universal  reformation  and 
maltreatment  of  foreign  languages.  As 
presiding  judge  of  the  Literary  Emergency 
Court,  without  consulting  either  Herford  or 
myself,  Mark  Twain  had  sent  this  cable 
message  regarding  the  man  who  looks  like 
Shakespeare  to  the  lady  who  lives  where 
Shakespeare  lived:  "Come  over  and  attend 
the  trial  of  Hall  Caine  for  lese-majeste  to 
the  cause  of  letters."  In  the  course  of  the 
same  day  this  reply  was  received:  "Am 
starting  immediately.  Await  my  coming. 
Have  important  testimony.  Congratula- 
tions." 

A  week  later  Miss  Corelli  set  foot  for  the 
first  time  on  American  soil,  and  was  re- 
ceived by  an  officer  of  the  court  with  a 
warrant  for  her  arrest.  Protests  were  of  no 
use,  as  we  took  good  care  that  neither  she 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        118 

nor  the  author  of  "The  Infernal  City"  should 
communicate  with  their  ambassador,  and 
thus,  perhaps,  cause  another  miscarriage  of 
justice,  as  in  the  case  of  Gladstone's  pro- 
tegee. In  providing  against  a  distant 
danger,  however,  we  failed  to  take  into 
account  one  at  our  very  door — that,  namely, 
to  be  apprehended  from  the  great  shopkeep- 
ing  and  servant-girl  class  of  our  own  people, 
whom  we  were  unselfishly  seeking  to  save 
from  the  contamination  of  these  writers. 
But  more  of  this  anon. 

The  trial  of  the  two  great  reformers  was 
set  down  for  the  second  day  following  the 
arrival  of  the  biographer  of  Satan,  but  on 
Loomis's  suggestion  we  decided  to  examine 
them  privately  in  chambers  before  official 
proceedings. 

"You  see,"  said  Loomis,  in  urging  this 
course,  "frequently  under  private  exami- 
nation the  very  worst  criminals  break  down 
and  confess,  and  thereby  obviate  the  neces- 
sity of  a  long  and  expensive  trial.  It's 
worth  while  trying,  anyhow." 

Loomis's  suggestion  was  plausible,  at 
least,  so  Mark  Twain  sent  for  the  superin- 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  119 

-  -*-  -^ — -«•   -»•  -  -*--  -*-~--  -*-   -^  -  -j---  -*- -  -«•    -*•    ^*-   -*-    -•  -- ^  -<£>- 

tendent  of  the  prison  and  ordered  him  to 
bring  the  two  English  writers  before  us. 

"Ah,  and  it  will  be  a  happy  day  for  me, 
sorr,  and  the  other  prisoners,"  sighed  the 
official,  who  was  of  Irish  birth,  "whin  thim 
two  has  been  condimned  and  put  out  of 
their  misery.  There's  no  such  thing  as 
sleep  now,  sorr,  with  the  noise  they  make 
a-callin'  each  other  all  sorts  of  names,  like 
copy-cat  and  p'agiarist,  whativer  that  might 
be,  and  each  one  recitin'  of  long  passages 
out  of  their  books,  showin'  how  the  world 
is  to  be  reformed.  Oh,  it's  awful,  your 
honours !" 

"Why  didn't  you  give  them  a  sleeping 
potion?"  asked  Herford. 

"I  did,  sorr,  but  it  only  made  'em  worse — 
they  talked  in  their  sleep." 

"Well,  bring  them  in  now,  anyhow,"  said 
Mark  Twain;  "but  see  that  they  are  well 
guarded  so  that  they  can't  get  quarrelling 
in  here." 

Two  minutes  later  the  Lord  of  the  Castle 
was  ushered  in  between  two  stalwart  police- 
men, and  a  moment  later  his  great  rival 
entered  by  the  opposite  door,  under  guard 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        120 

-A>— -£^~~ -'*"    -  *"- - "*"    -  --1~-  '  *       '*"•        ""-  "         *         *  -    -'"••        *"•       '"    —f'*- 

of  the  matron  and  a  woman  detective.  At 
sight  of  each  other  they  started  violently, 
and  an  angry  flush  overspread  their  faces. 
Hall  Caine's  sweeping  locks  began  to  rise 
like  the  bristles  on  a  dog's  back. 

"So!"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  himself  up 
in  offended  dignity,  "this  is  the  way  you 
insult  me,  is  it?  Not  content  with  the  out- 
rage committed  against  literature  in  my 
person,  you  now  force  me  into  the  presence 
of  this  purveyor  of  cheap  and  noxious  fic- 
tion ;  this  woman  who  has  dogged  my  foot- 
steps at  every  turn,  seeking  to  pilfer  from 
my  books  the  sacred  flame  with  which  to 
light  her  own  worthless  productions.  No 
sooner  do  I  produce  that  masterpiece,  'The 
Christian,'  than  she  comes  forth  with  a 
weak  imitation,  'The  Master  Christian' ; 
again  I  duplicate  my  achievement  and  give 
to  a  thankful  world  'The  Eternal  City/  and 
she  forthwith  rushes  into  print  with  'Tem- 
poral Power,'  wherein  she  seeks  to  rob  me 
not  only  of  the  essence,  but  also  of  the  very 
name  of  Glory.  It  is  too  much!  I " 

"Stop!"  cried  the  great  novelist,  rising  in 
the  glory  of  her  outraged  womanhood,  "will 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  121 


no  one  stop  this  man  from  blaspheming 
against  my  genius?  Have  none  of  you  re- 
spect for  the  repository  of  the  greatest  gift 
of  which  men  and  women  may  be  the  re- 
cipients— the  gift  of  creative  power?  Mul- 
tum  in  parro!  The  solidarity  of  human  na- 
ture renders  e  pliiribits  uninn.  But  as  poor 
old  forgotten  Baudelaire  so  beautifully 
sang: 

"•Les  ttoilcs  qiii  filent, 
Qni  filent,  —  qui  jilenl, —  et  disparaient —  ' ' 

"  Except  Mavis  Clare,"  I  interrupted, 
quoting  from  "The  Sorrows  of  Satan." 

For  the  first  time  since  coming  into  the 
room  the  authoress  looked  at  me.  A  gra- 
cious smile  illumined  her  countenance,  arid 
she  inclined  her  head  in  acknowledgment. 

"Ah !  I  see  you  have  penetrated  the  ti^u 
disguise  under  which  I  sought  to  make  the 
world  understand  the  motives  which  actuate 
me  in  my  arduous,  unselfish  work.  I  had 
not  expected  to  find  such  intelligence  in 
America." 

"Madam,"  I  said,  assuming  an  official 
tone,  "it  may  be  that  we  are  not  original 
enough  in  this  country  to  employ  the  singu- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        122 

lar,  disparait  with  ks  ctoilcs,  as  seems  to  be 
the  custom  in  your  country,  still,  we  are 
pretty  clever  at  penetrating  disguises  and 
unmasking  frauds." 

Even  as  I  uttered  this  stern  reprimand 
there  stood  before  my  mind's  eye,  with  the 
clearness  of  print,  the  beautiful,  modest 
words  in  which  the  author  of  "Temporal 
Power"  had  described  herself,  and,  as  it 
would  seem,  my  own  present  situation, 
through  the  mouth  of  Geoffrey  Tempest: 
"She  was  such  a  quaint,  graceful  creature, 
so  slight  and  dainty,  so  perfectly  unaffected 
and  simple  in  manner,  that  as  I  thought  of 
the  slanderous  article  /  u'as  about  to  -write 
against  her  work  I  felt  like  a  low  brute  who 
had  been  stoning  a  child.  And  yet, — after 
all  it  was  her  genius  I  hated — the  force  and 
passion  of  that  mystic  quality  which,  wher- 
ever it  appears,  compels  the  world's  atten- 
tion,— this  was  the  gift  she  had  that  I 
lacked  and  coveted." 

With  a  start  I  pulled  myself  together — a 
literary  emergency  court  could  not  be  suc- 
cessfully conducted  in  such  a  spirit. 

"Sinulia  siinilibits  curantnr,"  quoted  Mavis 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  123 

Clare  at  this  moment,  as  though  reading  my 
thoughts  again. 

This  constant  and  exclusive  attention  to 
his  rival  had  begun  to  anger  Hall  Caine,  and 
he  now  aggressively  cleared  his  throat. 

"Ahem!     Ahem!" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Caine,  we  are  coming  to  you, 
just  as  soon  as  my  colleague  here  has  fin- 
ished his  little  private  flirtation." 

"Continues!"  said  Mavis  Clare,  drawing 
herself  up  stiffly  and  annihilating  the  pre- 
siding judge  with  a  look — "women  of  high 
ideals  do  not  flirt!" 

The  obvious  reply  to  this  was  that  no 
one  had  said  they  did,  but  for  such  retort 
Mark  Twain,  of  course,  was  too  chivalrous. 
Instead,  he  turned  to  the  other  prisoner. 

"Now,  Mr.  Caine,"  he  began  insinuating- 
ly, "it  is  the  wish  of  the  court  to  ask  you  a 
few  questions  thus  privately,  in  a  manner 
not  possible  in  open  court.  We  think  it 
may  lead  to  a  simplification  of  matters.  Of 
course  you  are  under  no  compulsion  to 
answer  them  unless  you  wish  to  do  so ;  but 
it  will  prove  to  your  advantage  in  the  long 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        124 

run,  I  can  assure  you.  Are  you  willing  for 
me  to  question  you?" 

"Your  honour,"  replied  the  Lord  of  the 
Castle  with  great  diginity,  "I  have  nothing 
to  fear.  All  that  I  have  done  has  been  done 
upon  the  housetops " 

"That's  true !"   murmured   Herford. 

"Therefore,  I  say :  Ask  what  you  will. 
There  can  be  no  unfavorable  witnesses 
against  me." 

"Oh,  don't  be  too  sure  about  that!"  cried 
Mark  Twain  sharply.  "We  have  very 
strong  witnesses.  For  instance,  sir,  one 
of  them  is  ready  to  testify  that  in  your 
description  of  the  brotherhood  in  'The 
Christian'  you  say  compline  backwards,  and 
put  'recreation'  before  supper  instead  of 
afterwards.  What  have  you  to  say  to 
that?" 

"Nothing,  sir,  excepting  that  I  do  not 
approve  of  exercise  on  a  full  stomach." 

"Oh,  I  see !"  said  Mark  Twain,  taken 
aback,  "I  see!  But  I  hardly  imagine  you 
will  be  able  to  dispose  of  all  the  witnesses 
so  easily.  How  will  you  reply  to  the  jockey 
who  will  testify  that  in  the  scene  descrip- 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  125 


tive  of  the  Derby  in  one  of  your  books  you 
have  the  horses,  instead  of  the  jockeys, 
weighed  in  before  the  start?" 

"Very  easily,  sir.  I  wished  to  discour- 
age racing,  and  I  thought  that  by  weighing 
the  horses,  instead  of  the  jockeys,  I  might 
turn  the  scale  against  it." 

Mark  Twain  looked  helplessly  at  the 
utterer  of  this  remarkable  speech,  at  a  loss 
for  a  reply. 

"Humph!"  he  grunted  at  last,  "if  you 
don't  beat  the  beaters!  Mr.  Caine,  do  you 
speak  Italian?" 

"Un  porco"  replied  the  great  man  gra- 
ciously. 

At  this  Mavis  Clare  burst  into  uproarious 
laughter. 

"He  didn't  ask  you  your  name!"  she  cried 
— "he  asked  you  if  you  spoke  Italian!" 

Hall  Caine  vouchsafed  no  reply,  merely 
raising  his  eyebrows  and  sternly  regarding 
her. 

"Now,  Mr.  Caine,"  continued  Mark 
Twain  after  this  interruption,  "you  have 
written  quite  a  number  of  books,  have  you 
not?" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        126 

The  Lord  of  the  Castle  bowed  acquies- 
cence. 

"On   serious   subjects,   I   am  informed?" 

"On  most  serious,  sir.  The  flippant  and 
humorous  has  never  appealed  to  me.  I 
leave  that  to  inferior  minds." 

"Ah,  I  see!"  murmured  the  author  of 
"Tom  Sawyer,"  "you  act  wisely." 

"I  act,  sir,  as  my  genius  directs  me." 

"And  that  directs  you,  I  understand,  Mr. 
Caine,  to  treat  of  various  countries  and  peo- 
ples. 'The  Deemster'  and  'The  Manxman,' 
I  believe,  are  laid  in  the  Isle  of  Man?" 

"They  are." 

"And  'The  Bondman'  in  Iceland?" 

"Exactly." 

"And  'The  Scapegoat'  in  Cairo?" 

"As  you  say." 

"And  'The  Christian'  in  London?" 

"Precisely." 

"And  'The  Infernal— Eternal  City'  in 
Rome?" 

"Even  so." 

"And  you  know  all  of  these  peoples  and 
civilizations  so  intimately  that  you  feel  jus- 
tified in  writing  of  them?" 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  127 

"Evidently,  you  have  not  read  my  books, 
Mr.  Clemens,"  was  the  reply,  "or  you  would 
not  ask  me.  Besides,  allow  me  to  remind 
you  that  'Macbeth'  is  laid  in  Scotland, 
'Othello'  in  Italy,  'John'  in  England,  and 
'The  Tempest'  heaven  knows  where." 

"I  see,"  said  Mark  Twain,  in  the  dreamy 
manner  of  one  who  regards  an  unknown 
specimen  of  fauna.  "I  guess  most  of  your 
stories  are  laid  in  the  same  place  as  'The 
Tempest.'  " 

For  a  moment  the  Lord  of  the  Castle 
dubiously  regarded  Mark  Twain,  seeking 
to  fathom  his  meaning.  Then  with  a 
gracious  smile  he  bowed  acknowledgment 
of  the  compliment. 

"Shakespeare  had  the  advantage  of  prior- 
ity over  me,  Mr.  Clemens." 

"That  is  true,  Mr.  Caine,  but  you  should 
not  begrudge  him  that  one  advantage.  You 
should  consider  the  great  advantage  you 
enjoy  over  him  in  that  you  can  read  his 
works,  whereas  he  cannot  read  yours." 

"Precisely,  Mr.  Clemens.  But,  then,  no 
man  is  heir  to  the  future." 

"Your  remark  leaves  nothing  further  to 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        128 

be  said,"  replied  the  author  of  "Huck  Finn," 
bowing  in  turn.  "However,  it  was  not  of 
Shakespeare's  irreparable  loss  that  I  wished 
to  speak,  but  of  our  too  happy,  happy  lot. 
I  should  much  like  to  know  your  literary 
plans  for  the  future." 

"Well,"  replied  the  author  slowly,  "I  am 
still  somewhat  in  doubt  as  to  what  country 
I  shall  take  up  next.  I  had  thought  some- 
thing of  Bulgaria,  but  at  present  I  rather 
incline  toward  the  United  States.  I  have 
pretty  well  decided  to  write  a  comcdie 
htimainc  of  America.  It  is  a  fine  field." 

Mark  Twain  caught  his  breath. 

"Yes,  it  is  a  fine  field,"  he  said  slowly,  "a 
mighty  fine  field.  But  how  long  do  you 
think  it  would  take  you  to  treat  it  ade- 
quately?" 

"We-ell,  I  don't  know  exactly — perhaps 
two  years." 

"Humph!  I  see.  Mr.  Caine,  I  have 
nothing  further  to  say  to  you.  You  may 
sit  down." 

"One  moment,  please!"  cried  Herford, 
"I'd  like  to  ask  a  question." 

"Yes?"  inquired  the  Lord  of  the  Castle. 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  129 

"Yes,  just  one  question,  Mr.  Caine.  Now, 
I  have  here  a  copy  of  'The  Eternal  City,' 
and  on  page  6  I  find  a  sample  of  Roma's 
talk  when  she  was  a  baby.  I'll  read  part 
of  it  aloud:  'Oo  a  boy?  .  .  .  Oo  me  brod- 
der?  .  .  .  Oo  lub  me?  .  .  .  Oo  lub 
me  eber  and  eber?'  Now,  Mr.  Caine,  I  want 
to  ask  you  this :  Is  that,  in  your  opinion, 
an  accurate  reproduction  of  the  manner  in 
which  children  talk?" 

"Yes,  sir,  absolutely — at  least,  of  the  man- 
ner in  which  Manx  children  talk." 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  Herford — "their  words 
haven't  any  tails,  have  they?  I  have  fin- 
ished with  the  prisoner,  your  honor." 

Thereupon  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  seated 
himself  at  a  convenient  table  in  the  manner 
of  the  great  English  bard  in  the  picture 
entitled  "Shakespeare  and  his  Friends,"  and 
settled  himself  to  enjoy  the  discomfiture  of 
his  rival. 

"And  now,  Miss  Corelli,"  said  Mark 
Twain  to  the  author  of  "Vendetta,"  "with 
your  permission  I  should  like  to  put  a  few 
questions  to  you.  Pray,  remain  seated. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        130 


In  the  first  place,  you  are  a  very  good 
woman,  are  you  not?" 

"I  hope  so,  your  honour.  I  try  not  to  mis- 
use the  great  talent  which  has  been  given 
into  my  keeping.  I  do  not  keep  it  done  up 
in  a  napkin." 

"I  see !  You  send  it  out  that  it  may  gain 
ten  other  talents  for  you — eh?  But  you 
don't  seem  to  entertain  a  very  good  opinion 
of  the  rest  of  the  world,  Miss  Corelli.  Yet 
I  should  say  the  world  has  used  you  pretty 
well.  How  many  copies,  now,  do  you 
regard  as  a  good  sale  of  one  of  your 
books?" 

"Well — three  hundred  thousand  is  not 
bad.  But,  ah !  your  honour,  good  sales  are 
not  everything!" 

"No,  not  if  one  has  disposed  of  the  copy- 
right. But  to  continue.  I  doubt  if  any 
contemporary  author  sells  better,  unless  it 
be  Mr.  Caine  yonder.  How  is  it,  Mr.  Caine? 
How  do  you  regard  a  sale  of  three  hundred 
thousand?" 

"A  mere  bagatelle,  sir,  a  mere  bagatelle. 
A  good  return  for  one  English  county." 

Mavis  Clare  sniffed  audibly. 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  131 

"Pooh!  I  don't  believe  he  ever  sold  that 
many  books  in  all  his  life,  unless,  perhaps, 
because  people  thought  they  were  buying 
'The  Master  Christan'  when  it  was  only 
'The  Christian.'" 

In  an  instant  the  Lord  of  the  Castle  was 
on  his  feet. 

"I'd  have  you  know — "  he  began,  excit- 
edly, when  Mark  Twain's  gavel  cut  him 
short. 

"Now,  you  two  stop  fighting!"  he  cried. 
"You're  as  bad  as  Gertrude  Atherton  and 
Charles  Felton  Pidgin." 

"Sort  of  Pidgin-English  and  Manx 
mixed,"  remarked  Herford  under  his  breath. 

In  the  meantime,  in  response  to  a  tap  on 
the  shoulder  from  one  of  the  attendant 
officers,  the  great  Manx  author  of  so  many 
tales  had  resumed  his  seat,  with  a  she's- 
beneath-my-notice  sort  of  expression,  and 
had  regained  his  Jove-like  calm. 

"Now,  Miss  Corelli,"  continued  the  pre- 
siding judge,  "before  this  unseemly  inter- 
ruption I  was  about  to  refer  to  a  point  on 
which  you  seem  to  have  strong  and  novel 
opinions.  I  mean  the  critics.  Ah,  I  see 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        132 

the  subject  appeals  to  you.  Now,  I  hold 
in  my  hand  'The  Sorrows  of  Satan,'  a  book 
in  which,  I  believe,  you  have  given  to  the 
world  your  opinion  on  everything  in  heaven 
and  earth  and  the  waters  under  the  earth, 
but  in  especial  on  those  noxious  vermin, 
the  critics.  Am  I  right?" 

"You  are,  sir,  perfectly  right.  I  consider 
those  abandoned,  venal  men  responsible  for 
more  of  the  wickedness  in  the  world  than 
all  the  rumshops,  gambling-houses  and 
churches  put  together.  They  prevent  the 
public  from  reading  the  only  books  which 
could  possibly  counteract  the  evil  tendencies 
of  the  time.  Would  you  believe  it,  they 
do  not  shrink  even  from  attacking  my 
novels !" 

"No — is  it  possible!"  exclaimed  Mark 
Twain,  in  sympathetic  tones.  "Well,  per- 
haps that  will  give  us  the  key  to  the  para- 
graph which  I  am  about  to  read  from  page 
100  of  'Beelzebub's  Griefs.'  This  is  what 
you  say  there  through  the  mouth  of  one 
Morgeson,  a  publisher:  'The  uncertain  point 
in  the  matter  of  your  book's  success  is  the 
attitude  of  the  critics.  There  are  only  six 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  133 

leading  men  who  do  the  reviews,  and 
between  them'  (between  six,  you  notice) 
'they  cover  all  the  English  magazines  and 
some  of  the  American,  too,  as  well  as  the 
London  papers.'  Now,  Miss  Corelli,  in 
view  of  the  fact  that  a  little  later  on  you 
state  that  Geoffrey  Tempest  purchased  the 
venal  pen  of  the  leader  of  the  unworthy  six, 
McWhing,  for  the  small  sum  of  five  hundred 
pounds,  my  colleagues  and  I  should  much 
appreciate  your  courtesy  if  you  would  give 
us,  privately,  the  man's  real  name — I  think 
among  us  we  might  possibly  raise  five  hun- 
dred pounds  and  get  him  to  praise  our 
books,  too.  'Huck  Finn'  is  not  selling  very 
well  at  present.  What  do  you  say  to  my 
suggestion?" 

"Mr.  Clemens,"  said  Mavis  Clare  severely, 
"I  am  surprised  that  you  should  imagine 
me  capable  of  aiding  in  the  further  debase- 
ment of  literature,  I  am  more  strongly 
convinced  than  ever  that  you  have  not  read 
my  works.  But  yonder  sits  a  writer  who 
may  possibly  be  willing  for  a  nc  pins  ultra 
to  give  you  the  information  desired,"  and 
she  pointed  to  the  Lord  of  the  Castle. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        134 

Hall  Caine's  only  reply  was  a  curl  of  the 
lip  and  a  smile  of  placid  superiority. 

"He  doesn't  look  promising,"  said  Mark 
Twain  sadly.  "I  don't  think  he's  likely  to 
give  up  his  secrets.  I'm  afraid,  Herford, 
we  shall  have  to  plod  on  in  the  same  old 
hopeless  way  without  the  aid  of  the  critics. 
And  for  all  the  want  of  knowing  whom  to 
give  five  hundred  pounds  to!  However,  to 
continue.  Miss  Corelli,  to  judge  by  your 
writings,  you  must  be  extremely  fond  of 
foreign  languages,  are  you  not?" 

"I  am,  sir,  indeed.  To  me  foreign  lan- 
guages never  cease  to  be  a  mystery  and  a 
delight." 

"I  can  readily  believe  it,  madam,  very 
readily.  Moreover,  your  use  of  expressions 
from  other  languages  is  marked  by  so  great 
taste  and  accuracy  that  I  feel  doubly  justi- 
fied in  thus  publicly  calling  the  attention  of 
the  world  to  the  matter — if  all  writers  used 
foreign  phrases  in  the  same  manner,  what  a 
delectable  state  our  literature  would  be  in! 
Why,  not  only  do  you  make  use  of  French 
and  Latin  and  Italian,  in  the  manner  of  the 
Duchess  and  Miss  Braeme,  but  you  enrich 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  135 

those  languages  in  a  way  never  dreamt  of 
by  the  natives  themselves ;  not  content  with 
merely  inventing  new  words,  you  also 
invent  new  rules  of  grammar.  It  is  truly 
remarkable!  Thus  in  your  masterpiece, 
'Ziska,'  we  find  not  diablerie,  but  the  much 
more  beautiful  and  unusual  word  diablcr- 
essc.  For  this  addition  to  their  vocabulary 
you  have  laid  the  French  under  an  immeas- 
urable debt  of  gratitude.  The  only  trouble 
is  that  the  nation  is  so  darned  thankless  in 
such  matters.  But  not  so  Latin  scholars, 
they  are  quick  to  recognize  a  pioneer  in  their 
special  field.  Who  but  a  second  Bentley 
would  have  had  the  brilliant  audacity  thus 
to  force  a  Latin  verb  to  so  novel  a  use,  as 
in  the  noble  lofty  sentence  from  your  pen 
which  I  shall  now  read !  'I  do  not  address 
myself/  you  say  in  righteous  anger,  'to 
those  who  have  made  their  cold  adieux  to 
God,  to  them  I  say  pitifully,  Rcquiescat  in 
pace!'  Miss  Corelli,  only  those  devoid  of  all 
sense  of  reverence  will  stop  to  ask,  What 
is  the  singular  subject  of  rcquicscatf  To 
them  I  can  only  repeat  your  thrilling 
words  :  rcquiescat  in  pace. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE         136 


"But  enough  of  obituaries  when  other 
and  more  cheerful  linguistic  improvements 
await  our  notice.  What  a  stroke  of  genius 
did  you  display  in  'Barabbas'  by  the  creation 
of  Judith  Iscariot,  thus  turning  Iscariot  into 
a  family  name  centuries  before  any  one  else 
thought  of  this  device  for  avoiding  confu- 
sion; or  when  you  endowed  Pilate's  wife 
with  the  abstract  name  of  Justitia ;  or  when 
you  presented  to  Heliogabalus,  or  Helio- 
bas,  or  whatever  the  gentleman's  name  was, 
chairs  of  Arabian  workmanship,  when 
even  the  Arabs  themselves  had  never  seen 
the  necessity  of  sitting  anywhere  but  on 
the  ground;  or  when  you  rang  the  bells  in 
Jerusalem  at  a  time  when,  as  you  say  your- 
self in  another  connection,  the  bells  were 
non  est.  Words  fail  me  properly  to  charac- 
terize these  achievements.  I  don't  wonder 
that  Geoffrey  Tempest  took  to  consorting 
with  'blue-blooded  blacklegs,'  or  that  he  and 
his  wife  and  the  devil  had  an  'al  fresco  lunch- 
eon in  the  open  air.'  I  should  have  had  a 
dryadical  fit  among  the  trees.  Whew!" 

Mark  Twain  paused  quite  out  of  breath. 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  137 


For  once  in  her  life  Mavis  Clare  was 
almost  speechless. 

"Tempi  passati!"   she  murmured   weakly. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  presiding  judge, 
addressing  Herford  and  myself,  "I  have 
finished  with  the  prisoner.  If  you  have 
anything  to  ask  her,  now  is  the  accepted 
time." 

"Miss  Clare,"  I  said,  seizing  the  oppor- 
tunity before  Herford  could  speak,  "just 
one  moment !  I  shall  only  advert  in  passing 
to  such  minor  matters  as  split  infinitives, 
although,  as  you  may  know,  they  were  re- 
cently one  of  the  main  causes  of  the 
downfall  of  our  greatest  matinee  hero; 
nor  shall  I  speak  more  at  length  of 
the  works  of  Sar  Peladan,  despite  the  fatal 
parallelism  of  ideas  which  he  seems  to  pos- 
sess with  you — I  simply  want  to  reassure 
myself  on  a  question  of  American  slang. 
If  his  honour  will  hand  me  'The  Sorrows  of 
Satan'  I  will  read  the  sentence  in  which  the 
expression  occurs.  Thank  you.  Ah,  here 
it  is!  on  page  189:  '"Why,  what's  the  mat- 
ter?" I  exclaimed  in  a  rallying  tone,  for  I 
was  on  very  friendly  and  familiar  terms 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        138 

with  the  little  American.  "You,  of  all  peo- 
ple in  the  world  having  a  private  weep! 
Has  our  dear  railway  papa  'bust  up'?"' 
Now,  Miss  Clare,  have  I  your  assurance 
that  it  should  not  be  'bust  down'?" 

"You  may  take  my  word  for  it,"  replied 
the  authoress,  "that  it  is  correct  the  way  I 
have  written  it.  I  am  not  like  the  author 
of  certain  Manx  books  who  shall  be  name- 
less— I  never  make  mistakes." 

What  would  have  been  the  result  of  this 
unfortunate  remark  it  is  difficult  to  say, 
had  Mark  Twain  not  quickly  risen  and 
declared  the  examination  at  an  end,  thus 
precluding  any  attempt  on  the  part  of  the 
modern  Balzac  to  resent  the  aspersion. 

"Remove  the  prisoners,"  said  the  presid- 
ing judge  in  his  sternest  manner.  "But  in- 
form the  superintendent  that  I  say  they  are 
to  be  confined  in  separate  parts  of  the 
building,  so  that  they  cannot  further  dis- 
turb the  other  inmates.  The  sitting  is  at 
an  end." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad!"  exclaimed  Her- 
ford,  as  the  two  novelists  disappeared  from 
sight — "I  forgot  to  ask  Miss  Corelli  what 


CORELLI-ING  OF  CAINE  139 

the  Quarterly  Review  meant  by  calling 
her  a  'mother  in  Israel.'  However,  I  shall 
have  a  chance  to  do  so  at  the  trial." 

But  that  chance  was  never  to  come. 
Hardly  had  the  words  left  Herford's  mouth 
before  a  faint,  distant  murmur  reached  our 
ears,  like  that  of  the  Roman  mob  in  the 
theater.  Rapidly  the  sound  increased  in 
strength,  until  it  seemed  at  the  very  door 
of  the  room.  Then  just  as  suddenly  it  died 
into  silence,  and  we  were  left  gazing  at  each 
other,  wonderingly. 

"Why,  what's  that?"  murmured  Mark 
Twain. 

As  though  in  answer  to  his  question,  at 
that  moment  the  superintendent  of  the 
prison  rushed  in  with  his  coat  hanging  in 
shreds,  and  threw  himself  at  our  feet  in  an 
agony  of  fear. 

"Save  me!  Save  me!"  he  cried.  "A  mob 
of  salesladies  and  servant-girls  has  broken 
into  the  prison  and  rescued  Hall  Caine  and 
Marie  Corelli !" 

"Are  the  other  prisoners  safe?"  inquired 
Mark  Twain,  his  voice  quaking  with 
anxiety. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        140 

"Yes,  yes,  they  only  took  those  two!" 
"Ah!"  sighed  the  presiding  judge,  in 
deep  relief,  "we  still  have  our  preacher- 
writers,  then!  Certainly  we  do  not  seem 
to  have  much  luck  with  English  authors. 
Indeed,  I  begin  to  doubt  whether  the  ser- 
vant-girls really  wish  to  be  saved  from  lit- 
erary contamination." 


VI.  Three  of  a  Kind 

The  People  <vs.  Van  Dyke  et  &l. 
For  all  three  Defendants 

Brander  Matthews 

Senibli,  That  criticism  affords  no 

criterion  for  the  lay  mind,   and  the 

Court  is  powerless  when   the  Jury 

abets  the  crime.  No  Verdict 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  143 

PERSONALLY  I  should  have  been  will- 
ing to  let  the  author  of  "The  Blue 
Flower"  off  altogether,  or  with  merely  a 
nominal  sentence,  had  he  consented  to  turn 
state's  evidence  against  the  other  two 
preaching  authors — but  this  he  stubbornly 
refused  to  do. 

"I  know  they're  rotten,  as  the  French 
say,"  he  admitted  at  the  end  of  Mark 
Twain's  persuasive  harangue,  "but  consid- 
er my  cloth!  What  would  all  the  other 
old  women  in  the  country  say?  Besides, 
in  their  own  way,  Hillis  and  Brady  also  are 
engaged  in  the  glorious  work  of  effeminiz- 
ing  the  nation,  of  bringing  it  back  to  a 
wholesome  relish  for  pap " 

"I  see,"  interposed  Herford,  "George 
Washington  was  the  father  of  his  country, 
and  you're  the  pap-as.  Sort  of  Trinidad 
arrangement — heigh  ?" 

But  there  was  no  moving  Van  Dyke;  so, 
more  or  less  reluctantly,  we  were  forced  to 
place  him  on  trial  with  the  more  flagrant 
offenders.  For  convenience,  the  three  were 
arraigned  under  one  indictment;  and  now, 
on  the  day  following  the  preliminary  ex- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        144 

amination,  at  which,  of  course,  they  had  all 
entered  the  plea  of  "not  guilty,"  their 
joint  trial  began  before  the  Literary 
Emergency  Court.  To  our  amazement, 
Brander  Matthews  presented  himself  as 
their  attorney.  Since  his  unexpected  acquit- 
tal under  a  like  charge  the  Professor  had 
remained  discreetly  quiet,  but  we  now  saw 
that  his  silence  had  been  specious.  Unfor- 
tunately, alas!  we  were  debarred  from 
placing  him  twice  in  jeopardy  of  his  life 
for  the  same  offence.  In  his  youth,  it 
seems,  he  had  studied  law,  and  he  em- 
braced eagerly  this  opportunity  to  display 
the  remnants  of  his  legal  knowledge.  Dur- 
ing the  preliminaries,  before  the  com- 
mencement of  the  trial  proper,  Herford 
dashed  off  something  on  a  slip  of  paper  and 
handed  it  to  me.  This  was  the  polyglot 
verse  which  met  my  eye : 

"  There  once  was  a  scribbling  professor, 
Who  swore  to  reform  and  do  besser  — 
Aber  nix  kommeraus, 
Quand  il  etait  zu  Haus'  — 
Quick,  send  for  the  father  confessor!" 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  145 

By  virtue  of  the  constitutional  disability 
of  women  to  serve  as  jurors,  we  experi- 
enced little  difficulty  in  securing  twelve 
reputable  citizens  to  pass  upon  the  guilt  of 
the  accused.  But  few  challenges  were 
made — on  our  side  only  one,  that,  name- 
ly, of  a  legless  man  who  declared  that  Hil- 
lis  had  shown  him  the  path  in  which  to 
walk. 

"That's  in  keeping,  at  all  events,"  said 
Herford  gravely — "a  footless  writer  and  a 
legless  reader." 

"And  now,  if  it  please  the  court,"  said 
Loomis,  the  prosecuting  attorney,  rising, 
when  the  jury-box  was  at  length  full,  "we 
will  proceed  with  the  trial  of  the  accused. 
I  shall  make  no  opening  speech,  further 
than  to  call  attention  to  the  delicacy  of  the 
present  case.  I  take  the  liberty  of  remind- 
ing the  court  of  the  consideration  due  to 
the  'eternal  feminine,'  in  whatever  form  it 
be  found,  whether  in  frock-coat  and  silk 
hat,  like  Dr.  Mary  Walker,  or  in  frock- 
coat  and  silk  hat  and  pastoral  simplicity. 
Yourhonours,theaccusedhave  beenor  still 
are  preachers,  they  are  all  writers.  They 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        146 

believe  in  'the  investment  of  influence' — it 
pays.  We  live  in  an  age  of  great  women, 
and  not  the  least  among  them  are  many 
who  ride  in  the  smoking-car.  Personally, 
like  all  good  Americans,  I  am  in  favor  of 
women;  nevertheless,  I  should  like  to  see 
my  sex  preserved,  if  only  in  literature,  like 
the  dodo.  But,  somehow,  that  seems  the 
hardest  place  of  all  to  preserve  it.  To-day 
shall  decide  whether  it  is  impossible.  And 
now,  if  the  court  please,  we  will  hear  the 
witnesses.  It  is  my  intention  to  call  only 
one  witness  against  Newell  Dwight  Hillis. 
She  is  a  spiritualist " 

"I  object!"  cried  the  Professor,  jumping 
up  just  like  a  real  lawyer.  "I  object!  Spir- 
ituality has  nothing  to  do  with  the  writ- 
ings of  this  defendant." 

"That's  true,"  said  Mark  Twain.  "Still, 
it  might  help  to  turn  the  tables  on  him. 
What  do  you  think  of  permitting  this  spir- 
itualist to  testify,  Herford?" 

"I  think  a  mani-a-curist  would  be  more 
appropriate,"  was  the  reply. 

"What  is  your  spiritualist's  name,  Mr. 
Loomis?" 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  147 

"Signora  Cancani,  from  Dublin  and 
Rome,  your  honor.  She  claims  to  be  in 
direct  communication  with  the  classic  au- 
thors whom  Mr.  Hillis  has  paraphrased 
with  so  liberal  a  hand  in  his  'works.' 
They're  hot  against  him  up  there,  it  seems 
— especially  Schopenhauer,  Byron ,  Niet- 
zche  and  Heine  for  saying  that  'pessimism 
is  intellectual  mediocrity.'  Nor  is  Goethe 
very  fond  of  him,  for  telling  the  world  that 
'self-indulgence  took  off  his  chariot  wheels.' 
He  says  Hillis  shan't  come  to  the  side-door 
of  his  saloon  of  a  Sunday  when  he  gets 
through  dealing  in  other  people's  thoughts 
down  here " 

"Is  Goethe  in  heaven?"  cried  Mark 
Twain  in  astonishment.  "I'm  glad  to  hear 
that.  It  takes  a  load  from  my  heart — cs 
f'dllt  mir  Fran  von  Stein  z'om  Herzcn.  But 
see  here,  Mr.  Loomis,  we  can't  admit  this 
Cancani  testimony,  it's  not  proper;  al- 
though I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  that 
is  the  way  the  classics  feel  about  the  tran- 
scriber of  'Great  Books  as  Life-Preachers.' 
Call  your  next  witness." 

"Well,  if  it  please  the  court,"  said  Loo- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        148 

mis,  evidently  sadly  disappointed,  "I  will 
put  the  defendant  on  the  stand  himself — 
that  is,  of  course,  if  he  is  willing  to  go." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  preaching-writer,  in 
the  same  confident  manner  which  had  char- 
acterized previous  defendants  when  asked 
this  question,  "certainly  I  will  take  the 
stand." 

"Now,  Mr.  Hillis,"  said  Loomis,  when 
the  defendant  had  been  duly  sworn,  "what 
is  your  calling?" 

"I'm  a  minister  by  profession,  a  writer 
by  trade,  but  a  preacher  all  the  time." 

"A  very  true  answer,  Mr.  Hillis.  Now, 
how  would  you  define  genius?" 

"I  should  define  genius,"  was  the  reply, 
"as  the  infinite  capacity  for  faking  brains." 

"Faking  brains — why,  what  do  you  mean 
by  that?" 

"Faking    other    people's,    of    course." 

"Oh,  I  see!     Then  you  are  a  genius?" 

"Have  you  read  my  'Great  Books  as 
Wife-Teachers'  or  my  'Inquest  on  Happi- 
ness'?" 

"Yes,  and  it's  of  the  latter  book  that  I 
wish  to  speak.  Here  it  is  on  the  table. 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  149 

Now,  in  it  you  give  expression  to  some 
interesting  opinions  on  literature  and  art. 
Ah,  yes,  here  we  have  it  on  page  7.  'Ex- 
perience shows,'  you  say,  'that  unhappiness 
invents  no  tool,  doubt  and  fear  win  no  bat- 
tles, discontent  and  wretchedness  write  no 
song  or  poetry.'  And  a  little  further  along: 
'It  is  often  said  that  one  of  the  character- 
istics of  great  work  is  the  ease  with  which 
that  work  is  done — as  when  some  author 
writes  his  chapter  before  breakfast.'  Mr. 
Hillis,  you  must  have  written  that  chapter 
before  breakfast;  it  sounds  like  work  done 
on  an  empty  stomach.  Moreover,  when 
you  say  that  discontent  and  unhappiness 
invent  no  tool  you  forget  such  eminent  in- 
ventors as  Captain  Cuttle.  And  speaking 
of  great  work,  and  the  ease  with  which  it  is 
accomplished,  did  you  ever  happen  to  hear 
of  Thomas  Gray  and  the  twenty  years  he 
spent  on  his  'Elegy,'  or  of  your  friend 
Goethe's  life-task  of  writing  'Faust'?  Yes, 
Mr.  Hillis,  there  can  be  no  doubt — great 
work  is  always  thrown  off,  so  to  speak, 
before  breakfast." 

"Mr.  Loomis,"  said  the  defendant  at  the 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        150 

end  of  this  speech,  "what  you  say  is  doubt- 
less true,  but  I  never  allow  facts  to  inter- 
fere with  theories.  If  I  did,  where  should 
I  be?  Optimism  is  my  trump  card — it 
suits  the  old  ladies  of  the  country,  and  they 
are  the  ones  who  buy  the  books." 

"But,  Mr.  Hillis,  surely  you  don't  ap- 
prove of  card-playing?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir!  I  only  used  the  expres- 
sion figuratively." 

"I  see.  And  that's  the  reason  you  won't 
call  a  spade  a  spade?" 

"Precisely,  sir — the  old  ladies  don't  like 
it." 

"Well,  now,  Mr.  Hillis,"  continued  the 
prosecuting  attorney,  "y°u  have  been  so 
kind  as  to  define  genius  for  us,  will  you  not 
add  to  the  debt  and  give  us  your  definition 
of  literature  as  well?" 

"Literature,"  was  the  slow  reply,  "is 
best  defined,  I  think,  as  the  substance  of 
books  compiled  from,  the  evidence  of 
tomes  unseen." 

"You  put  it  excellently,  Mr.  Hillis;  evi- 
dently you  have  been  reading  your  own 
books.  Moreover,  on  page  32  of  'The  In- 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  151 

quest  on  Happiness,'  I  find  a  beautiful  sym- 
bolic statement  of  the  manner  in  which  a 
truly  great  writer,  like  yourself,  reads  the 
works  of  his  pedecessors.  Thus  you  say, 
anent  the  instinct  to  appropriate  all  to  one's 
own  talc:  'Passing  a  pasture  in  the  autumn, 
one  may  see  the  horse  with  mane  and  tail 
that  has  become  one  solid  mass  of  cockle- 
burrs,  collected  in  passing  through  the 
meadows.'  Of  course  that  is  symbolic  of 
your  own  literary  browsings?" 

"Of  course." 

"I  noticed  also,  Mr.  Hillis,"  persisted 
Loomis,  "that  you  are  a  philospher  of  the 
dynamic  school.  It  is  clear  you  are  no  be- 
liever in  the  stationary,  save  for  purposes 
of  compilation.  How  admirably  you  ex- 
press the  great  truths  of  evolution  on  page 
20  of  your  masterpiece,  'Great  Books  as 
Life-Bleachers,'  although,  I  must  confess, 
it  gives  one  an  uncomfortable  realization  of 
the  instability  of  all  things  terrestrial  to 
read  the  following:  'Slowly  man's  hut  jour- 
neyed toward  the  house,  his  forked  stick 
toward  the  steam  plow — the  smoking  al- 
tars toward  the  glorious  temple,  the  reign 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        152 


of  force  toward  the  reign  of  right.'  Tern- 
pus  fngit,  as  Miss  Corelli  would  say.  How- 
ever, who  would  quibble  at  a  mere  confu- 
sion of  time  and  space,  or  of  'was'  and 
'were,'  as  on  page  33  of  'The  Inquest  on 
Happiness,'  or  at  split  infinitives  a  few 
pages  further  on — even  to  mention  these 
flaws  in  a  style  otherwise  so  chaste  and 
sweetly  domestic  seems  to  smack  of  im- 
pertinence, and  I  hasten  on.  Mr.  Hillis, 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  confesses  to  hav- 
ing written  and  rewritten  extracts  innumer- 
able from  his  predecessors  until  he  felt  that 
he  had  appropriated  the  very  best  they  had 
to  give.  You  belong  to  the  Stevenson 
school  of  literature,  do  you  not?" 

"I  do,  sir.  Never  have  I  allowed  an  op- 
portunity to  escape  me  to  put  Captain 
Cuttle's  maxim  into  practice — 'when  found, 
make  a  note  of.'  How  else  is  one  to  write 
a  book?" 

"How  else,  indeed?"  echoed  Loomis  sym- 
pathetically. "You  are  a  stanch  believer, 
I  see,  in  Solomon's  saying  that  there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  sun.  It  is  the  se- 
cret of  your  profession." 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  153 

"My  profession?" 
"Your  trade,  I  mean." 
"Ah,  that's  a  different  matter." 
"And  now,  Mr.  Hillis,  I  have  almost  fin- 
ished my  examination  of  you.  One  mo- 
ment and  I  shall  excuse  you.  'What  a  piece 
of  work  is  man!'  exclaims  Hamlet — 'how 
noble  in  reason!  how  infinite  in  faculties! 
in  form  and  moving  how  express  and  ad- 
mirable !  in  action  how  like  an  angel !  in 
apprehension  how  like  a  god!'  I  see,  Mr. 
Hillis,  you  have  read  this  passage,  and 
in  your  own  graceful  way  you  have  adapted 
it  to  the  commonplace  mind.  'Imagine  a 
machine,'  you  say  in  'Man's  Value  of  Satie- 
ty,' 'that  at  one  and  the  same  moment  can 
feel  the  gratefulne\ss  of  the  blazing  fire, 
taste  the  sweetness  of  an  orange,  experi- 
ence the  aesthetic  delights  of  a  picture,  re- 
call the  events  in  the  career  of  the  men  the 
artist  has  delineated,  recognize  the  entrance 
of  a  group  of  friends,  out  of  the  confusion 
of  tongues  lead  forth  a  voice  not  heard  for 
years,  thrill  with  elation  at  the  unexpected 
meeting !'  May  your  honours  please,  I 
should  like  to  see  the  defendant  give  a  prac- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        154 

tical  illustration  of  this  complicated  per- 
formance." 

"So  should  I,  Mr.  Loomis,  very  much," 
said  Mark  Twain,  "but  I'm  afraid  our  ar- 
rangements for  gymnastics  are  somewhat 
inadequate.  We  shall  have  to  take  the  de- 
fendant's assurance  that  he  is  capable  of 
this  manifold  feat.  It's  all  right,  is  it,  Mr. 
Hillis — you  can  suck  an  orange  and  do  all 
the  rest  of  it  at  one  and  the  same  moment, 
can  you,  not  to  speak  of  pulling  the  wool 
over  the  public's  eyes?" 

"With  perfect  ease,  sir,  besides  arrang- 
ing mentally  a  paraphrase  of  Hamlet's  so- 
liloquy so  well  disguised  that  no  one  will 
suspect  its  source." 

"Speaking  of  Hamlet's  soliloquy,"  said 
Loomis,  "that  reminds  me  of  your  own  re- 
marks on  suicide.  So  scon  as  I  have  read 
what  you  have  to  say  on  this  important 
subject  I  shall  have  finished  with  you.  On 
page  22  of  the  book  to  which  we  have  so 
often  referred,  'The  Inquest  on  Happiness,' 
you  use  these  memorable  words :  'In  a 
world  where  an  average  of  10,000  choose 
to  stay  in  the  realm  of  life  to  every  one 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  155 

who  chooses  to  go  out  through  the  door  of 
suicide,  how  superficial  must  be  the  mind 
that  can  afford  to  give  more  than  one  min- 
ute, or  at  most  two,  to  the  question,  Is  life 
worth  living?'  Mr.  Hillis,  how  many  min- 
utes did  it  take  you  to  write  that  sentence?" 

"Well,  I  suppose  about  three." 

"More  than  two,  then?  How  superficial! 
If  it  please  the  court,  I  have  finished  with 
the  defendant." 

"Just  one  question,  Mr.  Hillis,"  said 
Mark  Twain,  as  the  great  compiler  started 
to  leave  the  stand,  "we  should  be  glad  to 
learn  the  title  of  your  next  book,  if  your 
publishers  don't  object." 

"Certainly,  your  honour,  I'm  happy  to  tell 
you — there  couldn't  be  a  better  advertise- 
ment. It  is  to  be  called  'Platitudes  and 
their  Practical  Uses.'  " 

"You  may  resume  your  seat,"  said  the 
presiding  judge — "that  is,  unless  your  own 
counsel  wishes  to  examine  you." 

"With  the  court's  permission,"  said  the 
Professor,  rising,  "I  shall  not  question  the 
defendant  at  the  present  moment;  nor, 
indeed,  shall  I  call  any  witnesses  until  the 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        156 

close  of  the  trial,  except,  perhaps,  in  the 
case  of  Mr.  Brady.  My  witnesses  will  serve 
for  the  other  two  defendants  together." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mark  Twain,  "just  as 
you  wish.  Proceed  with  the  next  defend- 
ant, Mr.  Loomis." 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  prose- 
cuting attorney,  "the  examination  of  the 
previous  defendant  has  taken  up  so  much 
more  time  than  expected  that  I  have  de- 
cided to  call  no  witnesses  against  Mr. 
Brady,  unless  by  his  refusal  to  take  the 
stand  himself  he  compels  me  to  do  so.  Will 
you  go  on  the  stand,  Mr.  Brady?" 

"What  is  that?  Did  you  speak  to  me?" 
asked  the  author  of  'Colonial  Wares  and 
Warehouses,'  looking  up  absent-mindedly 
from  the  pad  on  which  he  was  writing.  "I 
was  just  completing  my  new  novel,  'The 
Grippe  upon  Her.'  What  did  you  say? 
Will  I  take  the  stand?  Why,  certainly,  if 
you  don't  mind  my  going  on  with  my  writ- 
ing." 

Considerable  argument  was  needed  to 
convince  the  automatic  author  of  the  im- 
propriety of  continuing  his  work  on  the 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  157 

witness-stand.  Finally,  however,  he  con- 
sented, reluctantly,  to  surrender  his  writ- 
ing-pad and  fountain  pen  and  to  concen- 
trate his  attention  on  the  questions  of  the 
prosecuting  attorney. 

"Now,  Mr.  Brady,"  said  Loomis,  address- 
ing the  accused,  "what  is  your  full  name?" 

"Cyrus   Townsend   Brady." 

"And  your  profession?" 

"Present  or  cumulative?" 

"Cumulative,  please." 

"Midshipman  -  preacher  -  missionary  - 
historian-novelist.  That's  up  to  date." 

"Why  did  you  resign  from  the  navy,  Mr. 
Brady?" 

"Because  sailors  swear  so." 

"Yes,  but  in  your  works  I  find  cuss-words 
of  the  most  pronounced  order,"  cried 
Loomis,  "such  as  'cracky-day,'  'jimminy- 
crimminy,'  and  others  equally  strong." 

"It  was  for  the  purpose  of  being  able  to 
use  those  extreme  expletives,"  explained 
the  defendant,  "that  I  gave  up  my  ministe- 
rial charge." 

"  'A  foolish  consistency  is  the  hobgoblin 
of  little  minds,'  "  quoted  Loomis.  "Emer- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        158 

son  would  never  have  written  that  had  he 
known  you." 

Evidently  the  accused  was  in  doubt  as  to 
the  implication  of  this  ambiguous  remark, 
so  wisely  he  remained  silent. 

"Now,  Mr.  Brady,"  continued  Loomis, 
unfolding  a  long  sheet  of  paper,  "I  hold 
here  a  list  of  your  writings  from  your  first 
book  in  1898  to  your  latest  in  1903.  I  shall 
not  read  it,  as  we  cannot  afford  another  day 
for  this  trial ;  but  for  the  guidance  of  the 
jury,  to  prove  to  them  the  time  and  care 
you  devote  to  your  work,  I  shall  merely 
mention  that  it  contains  nineteen  titles. 
Nineteen  books  in  four  years — you  must 
spend  a  great  deal  of  time  in  correction  and 
revision?" 

"Mr.  Loomis/'  replied  the  defendant, 
gravely,  "I  have  never  in  my  life  read  over 
a  second  time  a  sentence  after  I  had  written 
it." 

"And  nobody  else,  either,"  murmured 
Mark  Twain. 

"I  believe  you,  Mr.  Brady,"  said  Loomis; 
"certain  statements  need  no  oath  to  carry 
conviction.  However,  to  continue.  You 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  159 

have  heard  the  brilliant  definition  of  litera- 
ture given  by  your  co-defendant — Will  you 
not  also  favor  us  with  your  definition?  It 
cannot  fail  to  be  interesting." 

For  a  moment  the  automatic  author  con- 
sidered. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  think  I  should 
define  literature  as  the  highest  form  of 
manufacture,  the  most  perfect  development 
of  the  commercial  sense." 

"That's  the  best  definition  we  have  heard 
yet!"  cried  Herford  enthusiastically.  "How 
would  you  define  genius?" 

"Genius,"  was  the  instantaneous  reply, 
"is  the  infinite  capacity  for  working  the 
typewriter." 

It  was  plain  that  these  striking  answers 
had  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  jury, 
especially  on  that  member  thereof  who  had 
given  his  calling  as  an  oyster-shucker.  Al- 
ready I  saw  the  impossibility  of  securing  a 
conviction  of  the  author  of  'The  Quiberon 
Smutch.'  But  Loomis  continued  to  blunder 
on,  in  blissful  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  his 
case  was  already  lost. 

"Mr.  Brady,"  he  said,  "I  have  read  sev- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        160 

eral  of  your  books  with  much  interest,  not- 
ably 'The  Quiberon  Clutch,'  which  I  was 
instructed  to  read  by  the  court  in  prepara- 
tion for  this  trial.  In  fact,  at  one  time  I 
was  very  much  afraid  it  was  going  to  turn 
out  a  good,  self-respecting  story.  But  fears 
on  this  score  were  finally  and  completely 
dispelled  when  I  came  upon  the  glowing 
description  of  the  heroine  on  page  162, 
which  I  will  read  aloud  with  the  court's 
permission.  'Anne  de  Rohan,'  you  say, 
'was  now  eighteen  years  of  age,  and  in 
the  first  blush  of  beautiful  womanhood.  Of 
medium  height,  with  a  figure  which  com- 
bined the  lovely  proportions  of  her  Ameri- 
can ancestry  with  the  daintiness  and  deli- 
cacy of  the  women  of  France;  with  a  clear, 
cool,  pale  yet  not  pallid  face,  exquisite  fea- 
tures, scarlet  lips,  proudly,  ay,  even  disdain- 
fully elegant  in  their  graceful  curves;  deep 
blue  eyes,  so  deep  that  they  were  almost 
violet  when  filled  with  feeling,  or  glowing 
with  passion,  and  the  whole  framed  in  her 
midnight  hair;  she  was  indeed  a  rarely 
beautiful  woman.' 

"Mr.  Brady,  since  reading  this  exquisite 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  161 

description  I  have  been  haunted,  as  it  were, 
by  the  melody  of  'far-off,  half-forgotten 
things'  read  in  years  gone  by  in  some  mas- 
terpiece by  the  Duchess,  or  Miss  Braeme,  or 
Miss  Corelli.  It  might  have  come  from 
their  pen,  or  from  any  one  of  a  dozen 
others." 

During  the  reading  of  this  extract  I  had 
not  been  able  to  take  my  eyes  off  the  oys- 
ter-shucker:  he  was  fascinated  by  the  beau- 
ty of  the  language,  which  evidently  exactly 
suited  his  taste.  Poor  Loomis  was  floun- 
dering in  deeper  and  deeper. 

"Mr.  Loomis,"  said  Brady,  slowly,  im- 
pressively, "you  have  heard,  doubtless,  of 
Alexander  Dumas  and  his  faithful  hack, 
Maquet.  Did  it  ever  strike  you  that  the 
days  of  farming  out  work  may  not  have 
passed?" 

"What!"  gasped  the  prosecuting  attorney 
weakly,  "y°u  don't  mean  to  say ?" 

"I  don't  mean  to  say  anything,"  was  the 
significant  reply,  "except  that  I  might,  pos- 
sibly, find  a  place  for  a  good,  honest  strug- 
gling humorist  this  spring  to  keep  him  from 
starving.  I  am  rather  busy  this  year,  as  I 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE         162 

have  some  thirty-three  books  on  the  ways. 
You  have  my  address,  I  believe?" 

"I  wonder  how  much  he'd  pay,"  mur- 
mured Herford  under  his  breath.  "If  I 
thought " 

By  this  time  Loomis  had  recovered  him- 
self. He  cast  a  jealous  look  at  Herford — it 
was  unlikely  there  would  be  room  for  more 
than  one  Maquet  on  the  staff  of  this  modern 
Dumas. 

"  'Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us,'  " 
I  quoted  to  Mark  Twain.  But  the  presiding 
judge  was  in  no  humour  for  joking;  he  was 
furious,  it  was  plain  to  be  seen — but  what 
could  he  do  under  the  circumstances?  He 
could  not  proclaim  on  the  housetops  the  de- 
fection of  our  own  attorney. 

"Do  you  wish  to  question  the  accused?" 
he  asked  sharply  of  the  defendant's  law- 
yer. 

The  Professor,  however,  was  too  keenly 
aware  of  the  favorable  impression  already 
produced  by  Brady  on  the  oyster-shucker 
to  risk  counteractng  it,  and  he  shook  his 
head. 

"Oh,  just  one  moment,  Mr.  Brady !"  cried 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  163 

Mark  Twain,  as  the  great  typewriter  pre- 
pared to  leave  the  stand.  "There's  a  ques- 
tion I'd  like  to  ask  you  in  regard  to  your 
story  'Hohenzollern.'  I  have  the  book  here. 
On  page  68  I  find  the  following  paragraph 
in  regard  to  chess:  'He  (the  knight)  spoke 
gloomily,  and  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  set 
of  chessmen  upon  a  table,  he  added,  with 
an  assumption  of  his  former  lightness:  "The 
emperor  hath  beaten  me.  'Tis  a  new  chess. 
The  king  hath  checked  the  knight." ' 
That's  a  neat  play  on  words,  Mr.  Brady, 
but  unfortunately  Germans  do  not  know  the 
word  knight  in  chess:  they  call  the  piece  a 
'jumper.'  So,  you  see,  your  Hohenzollern 
friend  could  never  have  made  that  pun." 
"Your  honour,"  replied  the  accused  author, 
"if  you  will  turn  to  the  preface  of  the  book, 
you  will  find  that  I  used  these  words: 
'Then,  as  I  thought  it  over,  I  concluded  to 
put  the  book  back  in  the  days  of  Barba- 
rossa.  For  one  thing,  nobody  knows  much 
about  the  days  of  Barbarossa,  therefore  lib- 
erties can  be  taken  with  impunity.'  You 
don't  know,  your  honour,  what  a  comfort  it 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        164 

-    ^          ^  ^  ^          ^         &:          ^          ^          ^          ^  ^  ^          -£;--    ^      -£.    -    ^    .     ^... 

is  not  to  be  troubled  with  a  historical  con- 
science!" 

"I  can  imagine,"  was  Mark  Twain's  dry 
reply.  "I  have  read  your  books.  You  may 
resume  your  seat.  Mr.  Loomis,  proceed 
with  the  next  defendant." 

"Henry  Van  Dyke!" 

What  was  Loomis  going  to  do  to  make 
a  case  out  against  him?  At  the  request  of 
Mark  Twain,  who  declared  that  "The  Rule 
of  Passion"  was  too  warm  for  him,  I  had 
read  several  of  the  defendant's  stories,  and 
to  my  surprise  I  had  found  them,  in  the 
main,  pleasant,  innocuous  little  tales  adapted 
to  the  comprehension  of  my  youngest  child 
(who  is  just  learning  words  of  two  sylla- 
bles), and  in  consequence  admirably  suited, 
of  course,  to  the  columns  of  our  popular 
magazines.  To  be  sure,  during  my  reading 
I  had  come  across  several  unfortunate  ref- 
erences to  "naughty"  words  and  the  "inad- 
equacy of  the  French  language  in  moments 
of  great  provocation" — but,  then,  one  must 
not  be  too  severe  on  writers  for  children: 
even  the  most  careful  among  us  may  make 
an  occasional  slip.  Besides,  the  little  dar- 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  165 

lings,  I  told  myself,  would  perhaps  fail  to 
grasp  the  hidden,  insidious  meaning  of  their 
favorite  author.  But  I  was  destined  to 
learn  that  there  was  much  more  of  bald, 
undisguised  evil  in  this  writer  for  young 
people  than  I  had  realized.  Loomis  had  a 
surprise  in  store  for  us. 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  he  said,  "I  am 
happy  to  announce  that  one  of  the  accused 
has  signified  his  willingness  to  turn  state's 
evidence  and  to  testify  against  his  col- 
league. Mr.  Hillis,  will  you  take  the 
stand?" 

This  sudden  treachery  on  the  part  of  the 
manager  of  the  Plymouth  hennery  caused 
a  sensation  in  the  court-room.  Van  Dyke, 
I  could  see,  was  frightened.  What  secrets 
of  the  inner  circle  was  Hillis  about  to  re- 
veal? But  what  was  there  to  reveal? 
Were  not  all  the  old  women  of  the  country 
with  the  author  of  "The  Rule  of  Passion"? 

"Now,  Mr.  Hillis,"  said  Loomis,  when 
Henry  Ward  Beecher's  successor  was  again 
in  the  witness-chair,  "you  are  willing  to 
give  your  testimony  against  your  accom- 
plice in  crime?" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE         166 

"I    am,   sir." 

"Is  there  any  reason  why  you  do  this, 
other  than  that  his  books  sell  better  than 
yours?" 

"Yes — I  do  not  consider  his  writings 
morally  fit  for  children,  editors  and  old 
women." 

Every  one  in  the  room  gave  evidence  of 
the  most  intense  interest,  save  one  extreme- 
ly old  lady,  who  sat  on  the  bench  reserved 
for  witnesses,  and  who,  plainly,  could  not 
hear  a  word  of  what  was  going  on.  I  won- 
dered idly  who  she  might  be. 

"You  say  the  writings  of  the  accused  are 
immoral,"  continued  Loomis ;  "are  you  able 
to  point  out,  off-hand,  specific  passages  to 
sustain  this  charge?" 

"I  think  I  can,"  was  the  reply — "hand  me 
'Fisherman's  Luck,'  please.  On  page  6  I 
find  this  astounding  admission :  'I  know  a 
man  who  believes  that  the  fish  always  rise 
better  on  Sunday  than  on  any  other  day  in 
the  week.  He  confesses  that  he  has  some- 
times thought  seriously  of  joining  the  Sev- 
enth-Day Baptists.'  Think  of  a  preacher 
who  can  pen  such  words  as  those!  But 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  167 

there  is  worse  to  come.  On  page  15  of  the 
same  book  he  openly  and  shamelessly  ad- 
vocates the  playing  of  cards,  while  in  the 
chapter  entitled  'Lovers  and  Pancakes'  he 
does  not  shrink  from  propagating  this  im- 
pure European  sentiment:  'Sir,  that  pic- 
ture is  equally  unsatisfactory  to  the  artist, 
to  the  moralist,  and  to  the  voluptuary.'  And 
yet  you  ask  me  whether  the  writings  of 
this  man  are  fit  for  the  eyes  of  our  metro- 
politan editors !" 

"Is  there  anything  more?"  asked  Loomis. 

"More — is  any  more  necessary?  Yes, 
there  is  more,  but  I  cannot  bring  myself 
publicly  to  read  matter  of  this  sort — I  al- 
ways save  it  for  my  closet.  This  author 
even  goes  so  far  as  to  admit  that  his  tale 
'The  Reward  of  Virtue'  is  not  a  Sunday- 
school  story,  and  that  his  hero  is  not  a 
saint;  and  in  'Spy  Rock'  he  states  the  un- 
truth that  'preachers  must  be  always  try- 
ing to  persuade  men'  instead  of  women. 
But  worse  than  all  is  his  attempt  to  curry 
favor  with  the  politicians  in  'Fisherman's 
Luck.'  Hand  me  the  book.  I  know  where 
the  passage  is — page  102.  Just  listen  to 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        168 

this:  'Do  you  believe,'  he  says,  'that  in  all 
the  world  there  is  only  one  woman  espe- 
cially created  for  each  man,  and  that  the 
order  of  the  universe  will  be  hopelessly 
askew  unless  these  two  needles  find  each 
other  in  the  haystack?  You  believe  it  for 
yourself,  perhaps ;  but  do  you  believe  it  for 
Tom  Johnson?'  Could  there  be  a  bolder 
attempt  to  ingratiate  himself  with  the  sin- 
gle-tax mayor  of  Cleveland?  Yet  you  ask 
me  whether  this  man  deserves  to  hold  his 
place  as  a  writer  for  young  people !" 

The  witness  paused,  out  of  breath.  His 
testimony,  I  could  see,  had  made  a  deep 
impression  on  every  one  present  except 
the  deaf  lady  on  the  witness-bench. 
Loomis  realized,  evidently,  the  unwisdom 
of  allowing  his  star  witness  to  take  the 
edge  off  his  testimony  by  citing  weaker 
points  against  the  accused,  and  he  abruptly 
announced  that  he  had  finished  with  him. 
The  Professor  declared  that  he  did  not 
care  to  cross-examine  him,  and  the  still 
excited  censor  montm  returned  to  his  place 
beside  his  counsel  and  sank  exhausted  into 
his  chair.  Clearly  the  Professor  had  been 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  169 

carried  out  of  his  legal  depth  by  this  sud- 
den defection  in  one  of  his  clients. 

"If  it  please  the  court,"  he  said,  rising, 
"I  find  my  plans  somewhat  upset  by  this  un- 
looked-for development  of  affairs,  and  I 
have  therefore  decided  to  dispense  with 
the  testimony  of  all  but  one  of  the  wit- 
nesses for  the  defense.  I  should  like  to 
have  Abigail  Hornbostle  take  the  stand." 

No  response. 

"Abigail  Hornbostle!"  repeated  the 
clerk  in  a  loud  voice. 

Finally,  after  numerous  attempts,  the 
officer  succeeded  in  making  the  old  lady  on 
the  witness-bench  understand  that  she  was 
to  take  the  stand. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  yes,  my  dear,"  she  mum- 
bled through  toothless  gums,  as  she  slowly 
rose  and  hobbled  to  the  chair. 

After  much  shouting  and  sign-making, 
in  which  the  French  language  proved  sadly 
inadequate,  she  was  finally  sworn,  and  her 
examination  began.  This  was  painful  in 
the  extreme,  in  view  of  her  deafness,  but 
the  Professor  succeeded  in  eliciting  the  in- 
formation that  she  had  been  delegated  to 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        170 


appear  as  a  witness  for  Van  Dyke  and 
Hillis  as  President  of  the  Old  Woman's 
Anti-Polygamy  and  Polyandry  League. 

"Does  that  'anti'  belong  also  to  polyan- 
dry?" asked  Herford,  but  Mark  Twain  or- 
dered the  question  stricken  out. 

"If  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  Profes- 
sor, mopping  his  brow  at  the  end  of  the 
first  five  minutes,  "this  good  old  lady  has 
come  down  all  the  way  from  Boston  to 
testify  that  the  association  of  which  she 
is  the  head  and  whose  headquarters  are  in 
the  city  on  the  Charles,  has  carefully  ex- 
amined the  writings  of  the  accused,  and  its 
officers  find  them  unreservedly  adapted  to 
the  requirements  of  aged  women " 

"But  this  is  expert  testimony,"  interrupt- 
ed Mark  Twain.  "Besides,  she  is  only  tell- 
ing us  what  we  already  know.  What's  the 
use  of  proving  a  thing  twice?  You  must 
withdraw  your  witness,  sir." 

The  Professor  protested,  but  to  no  pur- 
pose; and  Mark  Twain  thereupon  ordered 
the  two  attorneys  to  sum  up. 

"The  shorter  your  speeches  are,  the  bet- 
ter the  court  will  be  pleased,"  he  said;  "we 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  171 

have  already  wasted  too  much  time  in  min- 
istering to  such  kinds  as  these.  Get  thee  to 
a  hennery!  The  prosecution  has  the  clos- 
ing argument." 

Thereupon  the  Professor  arose  and  be- 
gan the  plea  for  his  clients.  In  view  of 
Hillis's  action  his  task  was  most  difficult; 
and  I  must  admit  that  he  made  an  able  ar- 
gument. Indeed,  it  was  stronger  than  that 
of  Loomis,  who  was  palpably  trying  to 
save  his  prospective  employer  from  the 
punishment  which  he  so  richly  deserved. 
The  arguments  were  short,  and  at  their 
close  Mark  Twain  charged  the  jury,  which 
then  retired  to  decide  upon  the  defendants' 
guilt  or  innocence.  Before  they  had  been 
out  fifteen  minutes  they  sent  for  'The  In- 
quest on  Happiness,'  and  a  short  while 
later  for  'The  Blue  Flower.'  Again  came 
requests  for  other  volumes  of  the  two  au- 
thors, until  their  complete  works  had  dis- 
appeared into  the  jury-room. 

"You  don't  think  they  can  really  be  read- 
ing that  stuff,  do  you?"  cried  Mark  Twain, 
incredulously. 

As   though   in   reply   to   his   question,   a 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        172 

court-attendant  rushed  into  the  little  re- 
tiring-room in  which  we  were  awaiting  the 
verdict,  and  stood  with  eyes  popping  from 
his  head,  vainly  striving  to  speak. 

"What  ails  the  man?"  cried  Herford. 
"Has  he  found  the  blue  flower?" 

"The — the — jurymen  h-have  been  r-read- 
ing  the  books  of  the  a-accused,"  stam- 
mered the  man,  "till  they  have  all  turned 
into  old  women!" 

Herford  was  the  only  one  who  did  not 
seem  surprised. 

"Well,  what  else  could  you  expect?"  he 
said,  laconically. 

"What  are  we  to  do  now?"  exclaimed 
Mark  Twain;  "the  same  thing  would  hap- 
pen to  any  other  jury  we  might  get  to  ex- 
amine their  writings,  and  we  can't  accept 
a  conviction  by  old  women,  even  if  we 
could  secure  it.  What  do  you  advise?" 

"Discharge  the  prisoners,"  I  said.  "It'll 
save  time.  You'll  never  convict  a  preacher 
in  this  country;  there  are  too  many  dis- 
guised old  women  for  that." 

There  was  no  escape  from  my  logic,  and 
the  prisoners  were  accordingly  discharged. 


THREE  OF  A  KIND  173 

"Well,  the  poets  shan't  escape  us  thus 
easily,  anyhow,"  said  Mark  Twain,  omi- 
nously ;  "we'll  have  their  blood,  or  Carman- 
cita's  scalp  shall  pay  the  penalty." 


VII.  The  Apollo-naris  Poets 

Upon  trial  of  Alfred  Austin,  alias 
"  The  Laureate  " ;  Ella  Wheeler  Wil- 
cox,  alias  "  The  Journalese  Poetess," 
et  a.L,  for  a  di-vers-ity  of  minor  of- 
fences, 

Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox  having  been 
discharged  by  the  Court 

Held,  As  to  the  rest,  that  the  pri- 
soners might  be  left  each  to  the 
judgment  of  the  others  with  a  cer- 
tainty that  all  would  receive  their 
deserts,  for 

Semble,  That  Poets  cannot  con- 
spire, and  it  was  Ordered  accordingly 
Verdict:  Guilty 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  175 

GENTLEMEN  and— poets,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  addressing  the  melodious  Nine 
whom  we  had  selected  from  the  great 
crowd  of  poetical  applicants  for  prosecu- 
tion, "after  much  consideration,  in  view  of 
the  heavy  expense  to  the  state,  my  col- 
leagues and  myself  have  decided  to  dis- 
pense in  your  case  with  the  ceremony  of 
a  formal  trial,  or  trials.  We  have,  there- 
fore, had  you  brought  up  from  your  cells 
this  afternoon  to  see  if  we  cannot,  so  to 
speak,  pool  the  charges  against  you,  and 
thus  get  this  ode-ous  matter  closed  up 
without  further  delay.  To  this  end  we 
have  hit  upon  a  novel  plan  and  one,  I  am 
certain,  which  will  meet  with  your  appro- 
val— we  are  going  to  let  you  try  yourselves, 
or,  rather,  each  other.  I  am  sure  that  is 
generous  enough.  Therefore,  I  invite  any 
of  you  who  may  have  charges  to  bring 
against  one  of  your  co-defendants  to  rise 
now  and  state  them,  in  order  that " 

This  was  as  far  as  Mark  Twain  got  in 
his  speech — it  was  evident  that  he  did  not 
know  the  poetic  nature. 

"I    accuse " 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        176 


'I    accuse- 


Every  one  of  the  Nine  was  on  his  feet, 
striving  to  gain  a  hearing  for  testimony 
against  his  rivals  It  was  as  bad  as  Zola's 
famous  "j'accuse"  letter. 

"Silence!"  roared  the  officers  in  attend- 
ance, and  at  last  quiet  was  restored. 

"Whew!  They're  without  reason,  if  not 
without  rhyme!"  sighed  Mark  Twain. 
"Look  here,  Herford,  this  will  never  do. 
If  we  let  these  poets  loose  against  each 
other,  we'll  have  a  free  fight,  first  thing  we 
know.  Did  you  ever  see  such  jealousy? 
What  do  you  advise?" 

"Try  the  other  plan,"  said  Herford. 

"Poets  and — gentlemen,"  said  the  pre- 
siding judge,  turning  toward  the  accused, 
"I  had  no  idea  it  was  as  bad  as  this.  The 
Nine  doesn't  seem  to  be  very  strong  on 
team  work  this  afternoon.  I  am  afraid  we 
shall  have  to  change  our  tactics.  Instead, 
therefore,  of  having  you  testify  against 
each  other,  I  shall  give  out  a  theme  for  you 
to  exercise  your  poetic  genius  upon,  and  we 
shall  then  leave  it  to  you  to  judge  each 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  177 

other  on  the  strength  of  your  productions. 
Have  you  all  pencils  and  paper?" 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Stedman, 
rising,  "as  dean  of  American  poetry  and 
author  of  'A  Pathology  of  Poets  whom  I 
Know,'  I  must  protest  against  this  undig- 
nified proceeding.  It  is  not  in  keeping 
with  our  position  as  seers  and  rates.  As 
Overseer,  I  speak  for  the  great  body  of 
more  modest  followers  of  Apollo " 

"Self-knowledge  is  the  beginning  of  all 
wisdom,"  murmured  Herford. 

"These  proceedings  tend  to  make  us 
ridiculous  in  the  public  eye.  They  are  the 
outcome,  moreover,  of  the  jealousy  of  a 
single  member  of  this  court,  whose  medi- 
ocre verse  I  omitted  from  my  Mythology. 
Otherwise " 

As  the  Overseer,  who  was  evidently  la- 
boring under  great  excitement,  looked  di- 
rectly at  me  while  delivering  this  denun- 
ciation, there  could  be  no  doubt  who  was 
the  "single"  member  alluded  to. 

"Mr.  Stedman,"  I  said,  interrupting,  "I 
am  not  in  your  Zoology,  it  is  true ;  al- 
though I  should  be  there,  if  only  under  tfie 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE         178 

head  of  Gnu.  You  smile,  but  allow  me  to 
inform  you  that  I  have  just  discovered  a 
distant  relationship  between  our  families. 
My  great-great-great-great  grandfather  was 
engaged  for  a  short  while  to  one  of  your 
ancestors.  What  have  you  to  say  now?" 

"Oh,  that  puts  an  entirely  different  face 
on  the  matter,  doesn't  it?"  cried  the  Verse- 
Broker.  "You  may  rest  assured  that  you 
will  be  liberally  represented  in  the  next 
edition  of  my  'Pathology.'  Permit  me  to 
retract  all  that  I  said  before  I  learned  of 
this  important  fact." 

Therewith  he  sat  down,  and  began  to 
sharpen  his  pencil. 

"And  now,"  said  Mark  Twain,  gazing 
around  the  circle,  "a  compromise  having 
been  effected  between  the  Gnu  and  the 
Obsolete,  we  will  proceed  with  the  test. 
If  you  are  all  ready,  I  will  give  out  the 
theme  on  which  you  are  to  write  your 
poems." 

"One  moment,"  cried  Mrs.  Ella  Whee- 
ler Wilcox.  "I'd  like  to  sit  next  to  some- 
body beside  Mr.  Markham.  He's  been 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  179 

copying  my  style  too  closely  of  late,  as  it 
is." 

"Very  well,  Mrs.  Wilcox,"  said  Mark 
Twain  indulgently,  "I  have  no  doubt  you 
can  find  a  place  between  Father  Tabb  and 
Sir  Alfred  Austin." 

"Excuse  me!"  cried  Father  Tabb,  rising, 
"did  not  this  lady  write  'Poems  of  Pas- 
sion'?" 

"Well,  what  of  that?"  said  the  Poetess, 
bridling. 

"If  your  honours  please,"  said  the  Ton- 
sured Lyrist,  addressing  the  court,  "those 
poems,  it  is  true,  were  written  long  ago, 
but  there  are  some  things,  like  the  sun, 
which  take  centuries  to  cool  off.  I  must, 
therefore,  beg  our  sister  Erato  to  find  some 
other  place." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  great  Journalist, 
with  cutting  dignity,  "Erato  and  Terpsi- 
chore never  did  get  on  well  together." 

So  saying,  the  single  female  representa- 
tive of  the  muses  present  swept  to  a  chair 
between  Bliss  Carman  and  Clinton  Scol- 
lard  and  sank  majestically  into  it. 

"Sir   Alfred,"    said    the    Father   of   quat- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        180 

rains  and  sextets,  drawing  out  a  small  red 
book  and  extending  it  toward  Tennyson's 
successor,  as  though  it  had  been  a  snuff- 
box, "will  you  try  a  Tabblet?" 

"What   are   they  good   for?" 

"Sir!"  cried  the  instructor  in  English 
grammar,  evidently  misunderstanding  the 
question. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  how  bad  are  they!  I 
mean,  what  complaint  are  they  good  for?" 

"Ah,  that's  different!"  said  the  mollified 
Grammarian.  "I  can  assure  you  they  are 
excellent  for  insomnia." 

"Give  me  one!"  eagerly  cried  the  Lau- 
reate, seizing  the  book.  "I  lie  awake  nights 
thinking  up  rhymes  for  such  words  as  'win- 
dow' and  'astringent.'  It  is  terrible." 

"Sh!"  cried  Madison  Cawein  impatient- 
ly, "you  disturb  my  mood.  Of  course  I 
cannot  expect  minor  poets  to  understand 
the  necessity  for  mood,  but  you  might  re- 
spect my  feelings,  even  if  you  cannot  com- 
prehend them.  Sirrah!" 

At  this  point  the  irrepressible  Herford 
propounded  one  of  his  perennial  riddles. 

"What     is     the     difference/'    he    asked, 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  181 

leaning  across  in  front  of  Mark  Twain, 
"between  Elisha  and  Sir  Alfred  Austin?" 

"That's  beyond  me,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  was  the  reply,  "Elisha  could  do 
nothing  without  the  mantle  of  his  prede- 
cessor, whereas  Austin  can  do  nothing 
with  the  mantle  of  his." 

"Herford,"  I  said,  "I'll  give  you  a  better 
riddle  than  that.  What  is  the  difference 
between  Alfred  Tennyson  and  Austin?" 

"I  haven't  time  to  tell  you,"  said  Her- 
ford. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  Tennyson  gained 
fame  by  'Morte  d' Arthur,'  and  Austin  by 
'Morte  d' Alfred.'  " 

"Look  here,"  said  Mark  Twain  with  a 
half  smile,  "you  two  think  you're  very 
witty,  don't  you?  Now,  I'll  give  you 
a  riddle  myself.  How  do  we  know  that 
Delilah  was  a  warmer  proposition  than 
Sappho?  Give  it  up?  Well,  by  Sapphic 
remains  Bliss  Carman  was  fired  to  produce 
graphic  refrains,  but  with  'Delilah'  Mrs. 
Wilcox  rendered  registers  superfluous." 

"With  all  due  respect  to  the  court,"  said 
the  author  of  "Poems  of  Fashion,"  rising, 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        182 

and  speaking  with  hardly  controlled  emo- 
tion, "I  must  protest  against  this  constant 
reference  to  my  early,  immature  verse.  Am 
I  to  be  judged  by  it  alone,  to  the  exclusion 
of  my  later  and  riper  work  for  the  Jour- 
naif  Why  does  no  one  refer  to  that?" 

"From  a  feeling  of  mistaken  considera- 
tion, madam,"  said  Mark  Twain.  "How- 
ever, have  patience — all  things  come  to  a 
waitress. 

"And  now,  gentlemen  and  lady,  we 
have  lost  entirely  too  much  time  over  pre- 
liminaries. Are  you  ready  to  begin  your 
poems?  Very  well,  I  will  tell  you  what 
to  write  on — A  Blank  Sheet  of  Paper.  You 
may  have  half  an  hour  for  your  work.  No, 
Mr.  Sherman,  I  can  answer  no  questions. 
You  must  follow  your  own  judgment  in 
the  matter." 

So  saying,  Mark  Twain  drew  out  his 
watch  and  laid  it  on  the  table  before  him, 
so  as  to  control  the  time.  Then  he  picked 
up  a  collection  of  the  Overseer's  Poems 
and  began  idly  turning  the  leaves,  with  an 
amused,  indulgent  expression.  But  sud- 
denly this  gave  place  to  a  puzzled,  won- 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  183 

dering  look,  and  the  author  of  "Tom  Saw- 
yer" began  anxiously  to  count  on  his  fin- 
gers while  his  lips  murmured  the  printed 
words. 

"Say,  look  here,  there's  something  the 
matter  with  this  second  verse — it  won't 
scan,  that  ct  cetera  seems  out  of  place.  The 
first  verse  is  all  right,  but  see  what  you 
can  make  out  of  the  second." 

"It's  too  much  for  me,"  I  said,  after  hav- 
ing tried  my  ingenuity  on  "Wild  Winds 
Whistle."  "But  wait  a  moment,  doubtless 
the  Overseer  will  help  us.  I  see  he's  writ- 
ing his  poem  with  a  metronome." 

It  was  true — the  great  Verse-Broker 
had  set  up  before  him  an  instrument  such 
as  students  of  music  use,  and  he  was  now 
evidently  testing  the  verse  he  had  just 
written,  to  see  if  the  metre  was  correct. 
Without  doubt  he  would  be  able  to  explain 
away  the  seeming  difficulty  of  the  "ct  cet- 
era." Indeed,  with  the  aid  of  his  instru- 
ment, he  might  even  show  us  how  to  read 
in  some  sort  of  metrical  fashion  "The  Old 
Love  and  the  New."  Still,  there  are  limi- 
tations even  to  the  virtues  of  a  metronome. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        184 


"Yes,  Father  Tabb,"  said  Mark  Twain, 
at  the  moment  when  an  exclamation  of 
delight  announced  that  the  Laureate  had 
discovered  the  long-sought-for  rhyme  for 
"astringent,"  "time  is  nearly  up;  only 
half  a  minute  more  and  you  may  read  your 
quatrain.  Time!  No  no,  Mr.  Cawein,  you 
must  stop  writing,  time's  up !" 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't  get  started  until  the 
last  five  minutes — these  minor  poets  dis- 
turbed my  mood." 

In  a  truly  Christian  spirit  that  refuses 
to  resent  unkind  remarks,  the  priest  of 
Apollo  leaned  over  and  held  out  his  little 
red  book  to  the  indignant  author  of 
"Blooms  on  the  Berry." 

"Try  a  Tabblet,"  he  said,  "they're  good 
for  moodiness." 

Without  deigning  to  reply,  the  Blue 
Grass  Poet  turned  his  chair  so  as  to  be 
forced  no  longer  to  have  his  mood  dis- 
turbed even  by  the  sight  of  a  minor  poet. 

"And  now,  Father  Tabb,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  "suppose  you  begin.  There's  no 
use  putting  off  a  necessary  visit  to  the 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  185 

dentist's.  No,  you  needn't  rise ;  we'll  leave 
that  to  your  poem." 

"Ahem!"  began  the  Miniature  Lyrist. 
"In  the  short  space  of  half  an  hour  I  have 
produced  two  lovely  quatrains.  I  have 
been  especially  happy  to-day " 

"Speak  for  yourself,  John,"  said  Herford, 
half-audibly. 

"Shall  I  read  them  aloud,  your  honour?" 

"Well,  one  at  a  time,"  said  Mark  Twain. 
"I'm  a  homceopathist  myself,  and  believe 
in  small  doses.  I  think,  though,  we  are  all 
in  good  health  and  able  to  meet  the  shock, 
so  go  ahead." 

"My  first  quatrain,"  said  the  author  of 
the  little-read  book,  "I  entitle 

"The  Sea  to  the  Moon. 

"  I  take  thy  kiss,  but  cannot  come 

To  claim  thee  for  my  bride; 
My  love  see  in  the  deaf  and  dumb, 
Blind    swelling    of    my    tide. 

Isn't  that  a  gem?" 

"Well,"  said  Mark  Twain,  "it  seems 
more  like  a  case  of  prenatal  ophthalmia. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        186 


However,  let's  have  the  other  verse  and 
get  it  over  as  quick  as  possible." 

"The  second  quatrain  is  a  companion 
piece  to  the  first,"  explained  the  Poet,  and 
hence  bears  the  appropriate  title, 

"  The  Moon  to  the  Sea. 

"Thou'rt  sore-afflicted,  I  allow, 

And  moon-struck  on  my  face; 
Yet  I  will  be  thy  bride,  for  thou 
Wilt  keep  thy  proper  place. 

There,  how  is  that  for  a  beautiful  homily 
on  marriage?" 

"It's  written  rather  from  the  woman's 
standpoint,  isn't  it?"  said  Herford — "'for 
thou  wilt  keep  thy  proper  place.'  " 

"Why,  is  there  any  other  standpoint  in 
American  poetry?"  asked  the  Grammarian 
in  astonishment.  "That  is,  if  you  want  to 
gain  admittance  into  the  best  magazines?" 

"I  see  you  know  your  trade,"  said  Mark 
Twain.  "However,  we  haven't  time  for 
further  discussion  of  this  interesting  and 
remunerative  question.  Hand  up  your 
quatrains,  please.  That's  it!  I'll  mark 
them  Exhibits  A  and  B,  respectively. 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  187 


Stamps  for  return  are  unnecessary.  And 
now,  Sir  Alfred,  we  will  take  up  your  case. 
Have  you  written  a  poem?" 

"Of  course  I  have,"  said  the  English 
Bard,  with  a  superior  smile.  "It's  my  busi- 
ness to  write  poems  on  all  occasions,  ap- 
propriate and  inappropriate." 

"Well,  let's  hear  it,"  said  Mark  Twain. 
"As  you  didn't  have  time  to  polish  it,  it 
may  not  be  so  bad,  after  all." 

Immediately  the  Laureate  assumed  the 
attitude  of  Walter  von  der  Vogelweide  in 
the  battle  of  the  singers  at  the  Wartburg. 

"One  moment!"  cried  Herford  nervous- 
ly. "This  has  nothing  to  do  with  Dr. 
Jameson's  raid,  has  it?  I  don't  think  I 
could  stand  another  raid  so  soon  after  the 
Boer  War." 

"Sir!"  said  the  Dioscuros  with  great  dig- 
nity, "I  hear  you  are  an  Englishman  by 
birth  yourself.  Surely,  then,  you  do  not 
presume  to  question  the  propriety  of  any- 
thing which  England  may  do,  no  matter 
what  it  may  be?  Thank  Heaven,  my  posi- 
tion does  not  permit  me  to!" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        188 

"Well,"  said  Herford,  "there's  one  piece 
of  English  injustice  I  never  can  get  over 
— they  don't  buy  my  books  over  there  as 
well  as  the  Americans  do.  How  is  it  with 
yours?" 

"  Your  honour, "  stiffly  replied  the  Official 
Lyrist,  "there  are  some  things  I  prefer  not 
to  discuss,  among  others,  critics  and  sales. 
With  the  court's  permission,  however,  I 
will  read  my  poem  on 

"A    Blank    Piece    of    Paper. 

"  I  often  sit  before  a  vacant  page, 

With  vacant  mind, 
And  wonder  for  a  very  age 

What  I  shall  find; 
But   every  time   at  last  I   write  the   self-same 

thing  — 
A  sonnet  to  the  King. 

"  Oft  in  the  past  before  the  King  was  crowned, 

I'd  try  to  write, 
And    likewise    then    upon    the    page    I    found, 

When  came  the  night, 
That,    willy-nilly,    I    had    writ    what    all    have 

seen  — 
A  sonnet  to  the  Queen. 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  189 

"  O,  ye  who  are  not  Lau-re-ates,  think  not 

My  place  a  snap, 
For  I  must  write  a  verse  upon  the  spot, 

Whatever  hap; 
Indeed,  as  Poet  Laureate  where  had  I  '  bean  '  — 

Without  the  King  and  Queen!" 

"That's  good,  Sir  Alfred,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  when  the  great  representative  bard 
of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  had  finished — 
"especially  the  closing  lines: 

' '  Indeed,     as     Poet     Laureate,     where     had     I 

"  bean  "  - 
Without  the  King  and  Queen! '  " 

There's  deep,  double  truth  in  what  you 
say." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Tennyson's  succes- 
sor, evidently  flattered. 

"And  now,  Sir  Alfred,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  taking  the  poem  just  read  and 
marking  it:  "Rejected;  not  returned  for 
lack  of  postage" — "there  is  one  question  I 
should  like  to  ask  you:  why  do  you  treat 
Kipling  so  badly?" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  your  honour?" 
cried  the  Laureate  in  surprise.  "I  have 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        190 


always  tried  £0  treat  Mr.  Kipling  most 
graciously." 

"Ah,  Sir  Alfred,  it  is  not  always  the 
willful  stabs  which  hurt  the  most!  In  the 
case  of  the  great  poet  who  came  so  near 
being  from  India-na,  you  have  shown  a 
painful  lack  of  consideration  towards  a 
brother  writer,  by  publishing  on  numer- 
ous occasions  a  poem  following  one  by 
him  on  the  same  subject  and  which 
showed  him  up  in  such  pitiful  light  by 
contrast.  It  was  not  kind  of  you,  Sir  Al- 
fred." 

"Your  honour,"  said  the  greatest  of  the 
laureates  since  Tennyson,  "you  hold  me 
responsible  for  something  over  which  I 
have  no  control.  Am  I  answerable  for 
an  unfair  division  of  talents?  Is  it  my 
fault  if  Kipling's  'Recessional'  looks  like 
mere  dross  beside  my  poem  on  the  occa- 
sion of  the  Jubilee?  Or  if  the  'Coronation 
Ode'  of  Mr.  Carman  yonder  is  put  into  the 
shade  by  the  efforts  of  a  more  gifted 
mind?  I  am  sorry  for  these  gentlemen, 
and  for  others,  as  William  Watson,  but  I 
could  not  teach  them  to  write  as  I  do, 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  191 

even  were  I  to  try.  I  am  glad,  however,  to 
have  had  a  chance  to  answer  thus  publicly 
those  who,  from  time  to  time,  have 
brought  charges  against  me  of  unchari- 
tableness  toward  poets  of  a  lesser  rank. 
Have  I  replied  to  your  satisfaction,  sir?" 

"Entirely,  Sir  Alfred,"  said  Mark 
Twain.  "Moreover,  I  must  thank  you  for 
the  happy  expression  'poets  of  a  lesser 
rank.'  That  one  phrase  sums  up  the 
whole  question  in  a  nutshell.  You  may 
sit  down,  Sir  Alfred.  Place  aux  dames! 
And  now,  Mrs.  Wilcox,  we  should  like  to 
listen  to  your  production." 

Instantly  the  author  of  "Chlorine  and 
Other  Acids"  was  on  her  feet,  with  a  great 
bundle  of  manuscript. 

"One  moment!"  cried  Mark  Twain, 
in  frightened  tones,  "how  many  poems 
have  you  there?" 

"Seventeen,  your  honour.  But  I  was  only 
going  to  read  sixteen  of  them." 

"Good  heavens!  You  don't  mean  to 
say  you  wrote  all  of  those  in  half  an 
hour?" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        192 

"Why,  of  course.  I  never  take  over  five 
minutes  for  a  poem,  at  the  outside." 

"I  had  been  told  that,  Mrs.  Wilcox," 
said  Mark  Twain,  "but  hitherto  I  re- 
fused to  believe,  it.  From  the  internal 
evidence  of  your  verse  I  declared  you 
must  spend  at  least  seven  minutes  on  it. 
However,  time  presses :  I  am  sorry,  there- 
fore, that  I  shall  have  to  limit  you  to  one 
poem." 

"Has  your  honour  any  objection  to  my 
selling  the  other  sixteen  to  the  Journal?" 

"Well,  no,  I  guess  not.  That  is,  if  An- 
thony Comstock  agrees." 

The  Poetess  made  no  reply,  further  than 
disdainfully  to  raise  her  eyebrows. 

"Shall  I  read  my  selection?"  she  asked 
with  dignity. 

"If  you  please,  madam." 

"I  call  my  poem 

"  Conversion. 

"  Were  I  borne  from  the  realm  of  this  worldly 
sphere, 

To  the  gates  of  the  city  of  gold, 
Did  the  portals  open  as  I  drew  near, 

Like  the  leaves  of  a  book  unrolled; 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  193 

Did  the  angels  come  in  a  welcoming  crowd, 

With  praise  for  my  work  below  — 
I  would  pause  to  ask  in  a  voice  loud 

Ere  I  passed  through  the  gates  aglow: 
'  Give  heed  to  a  word  from  a  pilgrim's  lip, 

Who  asks  but  the  simple  facts  — 
Has  your  city  municipal  ownership, 

And  the  wonderful  single  tax?' 

"  Were  the  answer  '  No ! '  I  would  beat  retreat, 
With  a  heart  bowed  down  with  care, 

But  I  would  not  enter  that  city's  street, 
Though  I  knew  Mr.  Hearst  was  Mayor. 

"  Were  I  borne  below  on  a  scorching  wind, 

To  the  gates  of  the  hinges  hot, 
To  the  terminus  of  the  souls  who've  sinned, 

To  the  fire  that  consumeth  not; 
Did  the  portals  ope  with  a  blast  of  fire, 

And  a  shriek  from  the  toasting-fork, 
Did  a  voice  announce  that  I  might  retire 

To  the  town  that  is  called  New  York  — 
I  would  not  turn  back  with  a  blanching  lip, 

I'd  call  for  the  vital  facts: 
'  Has  your  city  municipal  ownership, 

And  the  wonderful  single  tax?  ' 

"Were  the  answer  'Yes!'  I  would  scorn  retreat, 

I  would  heed  nor  shrieks  nor  flare, 
But  I'd  boldly  enter  that  awful  street, 

Though  I  knew  Mr.  Low  was  Mayor." 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE         194 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  when  the 
Poetess  ceased.  Everyone,  despite  the 
pangs  of  jealousy,  realized  that  we  had 
just  listened  to  a  masterpiece ;  silence  was 
the  tribute  paid  to  genius. 

"Look  here,"  said  Mark  Twain  in  a  pro- 
fessional whisper,  "we  can't  condemn 
this  woman  to  the  Guillotine.  You  re- 
member what  a  New  York  judge  recently 
said  in  regard  to  the  supreme  difficulty  of 
deciding  when  the  dividing  line  has  been 
passed.  There's  only  one  thing  we  can 
do — set  her  free." 

"Ask  Herford  what  he  thinks,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"Well,"  said  the  author  of  "The  Bashful 
Earthquake,"  "personally  I  am  in  favor  of 
the  Belgian  method  of  open-air  treatment. 
We  might  try  it,  anyhow." 

"Madam,"  said  Mark  Twain,  addressing 
the  great  Journalese  Poetess,  "in  view  of 
the  remarkable  poem  which  you  have  just 
read,  the  court  believes  that  the  cause  of 
humanity  will  be  better  advanced  by 
granting  you  conditional  freedom  and  the 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  195 

opportunity  to  go  about  your  customary 
occupations,  than  it  would  be  by  con- 
demning you  to  the  Guillotine.  Therefore, 
you  may  withdraw  and  take  your  sixteen 
poems  down  to  Newspaper  Row.  The 
court  will  be  interested  to  learn  what  you 
receive  for  them  per  line. 

"Mr.  Carman,  we  will  now  take  up  your 
case,  and  see  whether  your  prayer  to  Nature 
has  been  granted, 

' '  Make    me    over    in    the    morning 
From  the  rag-bag  of  the  world.' 

Will  you  kindly  read  your  poem?" 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  Carman, 
brushing  the  hair  from  his  eyes,  "I  wish 
it  distinctly  understood  that  I  reserve  the 
copyright  in  this  poem.  I  shall  later  in- 
clude it  in  'The  Pipes  of  Pan.'  " 

"Very  well,  sir,"  said  Mark  Twain,  "that 
is  a  matter  between  yourself  and  your 
Maker.  However,  let's  have  the  poem." 

Gracefully  crossing  his  legs,  the  Cana- 
dian Bard  began  in  deep,  resonant  voice: 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        196 


"  Pan  Americanus. 

Who  did  this  thing?'  I  cried, 
Startled  and  horrified, 
As  on  Great  Pan  one  day, 
Bedight  in  man's  array, 
I  chanced  within  the  wood, 
And  speechless  then  I  stood: 
His  beard,  alas!    had  gone, 
Clean  shaven  from  his  chin, 
The  trousers  he  had  on 
Flapped  loose  around  the  shin, 
From  sight  were  hid  his  horns 
By  hat  of  silk,  O  Muse! 
Doubtless  for  fear  of  thorns 
His  feet  were  cased  in  shoes; 
While  on  his  fingers  deft, 
Which  once  the  pipe  had  played, 
As  though  of  sense  bereft, 
Here  in  this  lonely  glade, 
A  pair  of  gloves  I  saw, 
'Gainst  every  sylvan  law, 
Which  makes  the  kids  his  care, 
But  not  as  gloves  to  wear. 
I  gazed  into  his  eye, 
I  heard  his  hopeless  sigh, 
And  then  I  asked  again: 
'  What  vandal  band  of  men 
Maltreated  thee,  Great  Pan?' 
He  sighed:   "Twas  not  a  man, 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  197 

It  was  the  women  who 
Comprise  the   Christian  U — 
Nion,  the  Temp'rance  crew; 
They  dressed  me   thus  because 
They  said  the  Union's  laws 
Proclaimed  the  sacred  cause 
Of  prim  propriety, 
And  hence  it  might  not  be 
That  I,  sans  cloth  or  feather, 
In  just  the  altogether, 
Should  roam  the  woods  at  will. 
Alas!'  —  his    voice   grew   still  — 
'Alas!'  he  feebly  said  — 
Great  Pan  was  dead!" 

Like  the  waves  of  sound  from  an  organ, 
the  tones  of  the  great  Panopticon  Poet 
continued  to  echo  through  the  hall  after 
his  voice  had  ceased.  Could  there  be  the 
shadow  of  a  doubt  that  we  had  listened 
to  the  greatest  effort  of  the  gifted  singer? 
It  was  evident  that  Mark  Twain  was  deep- 
ly impressed. 

"Mr.  Carman,"  he  said,  without  con- 
sulting Herford  or  myself,  "were  the  court 
alone  concerned  in  this  question,  I  should 
offer  unconditional  freedom  to  the  man 
capable  of  writing  'Pan  Americanus.'  But 
it  is  my  duty  to  think  also  of  your  welfare. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        198 

You  may  go,  sir,  but  remember  one  thing 
— the  vengeance  of  the  Woman's  Christian 
Temperance  Union.  They  killed  Pan,  you 
know,  for  a  much  less  offence.  What  do 
you  say?" 

"With  the  court's  permission,"  said  the 
bard,  visibly  turning  pale,  "I  prefer  the 
guillotine.  Earth  holds  no  furies  like  the 
Temperance  Union." 

"I  think  you  are  wise,  Mr.  Carman," 
said  Mark  Twain.  "We  will  now  take  up 
the  case  of  one  Frank  Deemster  Sherman. 
I  never  heard  the  name  before,  but  it 
sounds  as  though  Hall  Caine  had  written 
it,  all  right." 

Herford  plucked  the  sleeve  of  the  pre- 
siding judge  and  whispered  something  in 
his  ear. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mark  Twain,  "is 
this  Felix  Carmen?" 

"That  is  my  nom  dc  guerre,  your  honour," 
said  the  accused. 

"Are  you  Carmen  Sylva,  too?" 

"Why,  no,  your  honour,  Carmen  Sylva  is 
the  queen  of  Roumania!" 

"Well,  I  didn't  know  who  else  you  might 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  199 

be,  since  you  have  simply  turned  Bliss 
Carman's  name  into  Latin.  You  write 
facetious  verse  a  good  deal,  I  am  told?" 

"I  take  it  seriously,  sir." 

"Well,  Mr.  Happy  Song,"  continued  the 
presiding  judge,  "there  is  one  truth  you 
should  bear  in  mind:  in  the  phrase  a  'poet 
who  amuses'  the  a  of  amuses  is  an  alpha 
pri-raiiz'c — a  'poet  without  the  muses.'  I 
think  the  world  will  see  the  force  of  my 
contention  when  I  read  this  little  quatrain 
by  Felix  Carmen  which  recently  appeared 
in  one  of  New  York's  leading  weeklies: 

'  Love's  Gift. 

'Daybreak  and  song  and  rose  and  star, — 
All  of  these  things  to  me  you  are. 
You  are  a  garden  sweet  conferred 
By  love  upon  a  poet-bird.' 

"And  now,  Mr.  Poet-Bird,  the  court 
would  like  to  see  what  you  have  hatched 
out  in  the  last  half-hour.  Give  us  a  sam- 
ple of  your  fledgelings." 

"With  the  court's  permission,"  said  Car- 
men Sylva's  namesake,  "I  will  read  my 
little  verse.  I  call  it 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        200 

"  A  Catch-as-Catch-Can. 

"  If  any  thought 
You  can  divine 
In  line 
Of  mine, 

Be  sure  'tis  naught 
I  ever  sought 

By  word  or  sign 
Thus  to  express  — 
I  here  confess 

How  came  it  there: 
My  secretaire 
Is  debonnaire :, 

And  careless,  too, 
And  oftentimes 

She  writes  my  rhymes 

Askew. 

And  thus  you  see 
How  it  must  be 

That  I 

Have  seemed  to  sing 
A   thoughtful   thing  — 
Oh  my!  " 

"Has  anyone  any  remark  to  make  upon 
the  poem  we  have  just  been  privileged  to 
hear?"  asked  Mark  Twain  at  the  close  of 
the  wrestling  bout. 

Silence. 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  201 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Sherman,"  said  the  pre- 
siding judge,  sadly.  "Even  without  the 
testimony  of  an  alienist,  I  now  under- 
stand your  desire  for  an  alias.  Sit  down, 
sir,  and  be  thankful  for  the  court's  lenien- 
cy. Why,  at  this  rate,  we  will  soon  be 
taking  official  notice  of  such  offenders  as 
Miss  Thomas  and  Mrs.  Sangster  and 
Miss  Guiney.  And  now,  Mr.  Cawein,  per- 
haps we  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing 
from  you.  What  have  you  garnered  in  the 
fields  of  song?" 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  Blue 
Grass  Warbler,  rising,  "I  must  beg  the 
indulgence  of  the  court.  I  sought  to  write 
something,  but  the  presence  of  these  minor 
poets  so  disturbed  my  mood  that  I  was 
unable  to  produce  anything  worthy  of  my 
great  reputation.  Indeed,  it  is  conceivable 
that  Mr.  Markham,  or  even  Mr.  Carman,  in 
a  happy  moment  might  have  equalled  the 
inferior  stuff  which  I  herewith  destroy." 

So  saying,  the  great  Louisville  Poet  tore, 
down  and  across,  the  sheet  of  paper  which 
he  held  in  his  hand.  What  had  the  world 
lost  thereby? 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        202 

An  exclamation  of  horror  came  from  the 
lips  of  every  one  present — but  too  late. 

"Mr.  Cawein,"  said  Mark  Twain,  "I 
wonder  whether  you  realize  the  crime  you 
have  committed  against  posterity?  Had 
Rossetti  not  rescued  his  poems  from  the 
grave  of  his  wife,  the  loss  would  have  been 
trivial  in  comparison  to  ours.  Indeed, 
sir,  I  feel  as  John  Stuart  Mill  must  have 
felt  when  he  learned  that  his  servant  had 
destroyed  the  manuscript  of  Carlyle's 
'The  French  Revolution.'  Sit  down,  Mr. 
Cawein,  and  ponder  the  enormity  of  your 
act." 

For  a  moment  Mark  Twain  paused  to 
recover  control  of  his  voice. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Scollard,"  he  said,  ad- 
dressing the  ex-Professor,  "it  is  a  relief 
to  turn  to  a  poet  without  mood.  What 
have  you  produced  by  the  aid  of  your  dic- 
tionary of  archaic  words?" 

"IVay  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  au- 
thor of  "Bills  of  Song,"  "I  will  read  aloud 
my  contribution.  I  call  it 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  203 


"A  Ballade  of  Obsolete  Words. 

"  Bourgeon's  a  word  that  few  have  seen, 

Hence  'tis  a  word  that  I  often  use, 
Look  in  the  cal-e-pin  what  it  may  mean, 

Delie  and  sweet  is  the  lyric  muse; 

Hark  to  a  simple  and  useful  ruse, 
Lyrists  all  of  the  flowers  and  birds: 

Fear  ye  editors  may  refuse?  — 
Sprinkle  your  verse  with  obsolete  words. 

"  Bards,  they  say,  are  but  poets  lean, 
Hence  to  you  it  is  doubtless  news 

That  in  the  days  of  the  Virgin  Queen 
'  Bards '  was  made  in  the  court  and  mews 
Service  to  do  for  the  reds  and  blues, 

Trappings  gay  of  equestrian  herds  — 
Fear  ye  editors  may  refuse?  — 

Sprinkle  your  verse  with  obsolete  words. 

"  Sing  of  your  love  as  Anne  or  Jean, 

Laura,  Magda,  as  you  may  choose, 
Call  her  Clara  or  Imogene, 

Make  her  German  or  eke  Toulouse; 

Give  her  the  measles  or  even  blues, 
Let  her  delight  in  whey  and  curds  — 

Fear  ye  editors  may  refuse?  — 
Sprinkle  your  verse  with  obsolete  words. 

L'  Envoi. 
"  Hence,  O  Poets,  ye  cannot  lose, 

Sing  ye  of  rational  roots  or  surds  — 
Never  an  editor  can  refuse, 
If  sprinkled  your  verse  with  obsolete  words. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        204 

"  There,  what  do  you  think  of  that,  sir  ?  " 
asked  the  Poet  proudly. 

"Mr.  Scollard,"  said  Mark  Twain, 
"that  is  a  most  valuable  contribution  to 
autobiographic  literature;  it  is  in  line  with 
the  'confessions'  which  are  so  much  in 
fashion  at  the  present  moment — 'sprinkle 
your  verse  with  obsolete  words.'  It  is 
quite  superfluous  to  say,  Physician,  take 
thy  own  medicine. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Markham,  we  should 
like  to  see  what  you  have  dug  up  with 
your  little  hoe.  I  hope  it  is  not  a  cereal." 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  Loch- 
invar  of  poetry,  rising,  "it  would  be  folly 
to  expect  me  to  produce  a  masterpiece  in 
half  an  hour — I  do  not  write  for  The  Jour- 
nal, I  write  for  Success.  However,  even 
thus  hurriedly,  I  have  managed  to  mint 
a  few  golden  lines,  in  the  manner  of  Keats 
in  the  cottage  of  Burns.  I  entitle  my  frag- 
ment 'Prolegomena  to  Sisterhood.'  " 

"To  Sisterhood,  Mr.  Markham?"  cried 
Mark  Twain.  "Why,  I  thought  Brother- 
hood was  your  long  suit?" 

"So  it  was,  your  honour,  until  lately.    But 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  205 

there  wasn't  enough  money  in  Brother- 
hood, so  I  thought  I'd  try  Sisterhood :  it's 
the  thing  that  pays  in  this  country.  Look 
at  Van  Dyke  and  Winston  Churchill " 

"Mr.  Markham!"  cried  Mark  Twain 
sternly,  "confine  your  remarks,  please,  to 
the  subject  in  hand.  Moreover,  as  to  your 
poem  on  Sisterhood,  we  cannot  possibly 
permit  you  to  read  it  thus  semi-publicly, 
and  thereby  hasten  still  further  the  effem- 
inizing  work  in  which  are  engaged  the 
two  gentlemen  whom  you  just  cited." 

"Oh,  just  a  line  or  two  on  women,  your 
honour!"  begged  Markham.  "I  have  some 
choice  ones — 

"  Throughout  all  Heav'n  to  its  last  rung 
There  is  no  shape  more  beautiful  than  this  — 
More  many-tongued  and  liberal  of  its  speech  — 
More  filled  with  horror  at  the  face  of  Truth  — 
More  fraught  with  menace  to  our  literature  —  " 

"Silence !"  cried  the  presiding  judge,  sharp- 
ly bringing  down  his  gavel.  "I  am  sorry, 
Mr.  Markham,  but  despite  the  truth  of 
your  lines,  I  cannot  allow  you  to  read  them. 
I  have  no  doubt,  however,  that  you  can 
sell  them  to  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        206 


I  think,  though,  I'd  enclose  return  postage, 
if  I  were  you. 

"Now,  Mr.  Stedman,  last  but  not  least, 
we  will  take  up  your  case.  As  dean  and 
Overseer  of  American  poetry,  of  course 
you  have  produced  something  worthy  of 
your  reputation — that  is  not  asking  too 
much  for  half  an  hour's  work,,  I  am  sure. 
May  we  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  your 
muse?" 

"May  it  please  the  court,"  said  the  great 
Verse-Broker,  rising  and  brushing  his 
flowing  beard  to  right  and  left  over  his 
shoulder,  "I  have  here  a  sample  of  spring 
verse,  selling  at  16  1-2,  sealed  and  delivered 
to  buyer.  What  am  I  bid  for  it?  There  has 
been  nothing  like  it  in  the  market  since  I 
published  my  early  poems  in  1860.  Any 
freshman  in  the  country  can  duplicate  it 
without  notice.  Going,  going " 

"Come,  Mr.  Stedman,"  said  Mark 
Twain,  "we  can't  buy  a  pig  in  a  poke. 
Let's  have  a  sample  of  your  wares.  The 
court  will  protect  you  during  the  reading." 

"Very   well,   sir,"   said  the   Overseer,   "I 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  207 

will  risk  it  under  the  court's  protection. 
My  poem  is  called 

"  Nora,   Me   Honey. 

"  Nora,  me  honey,  the  baby's  awake, 
I  beg  you,  me  darlin',  get  up  for  my  sake; 
The  moth  in  his  silent,  soft  circle  of  flight 
Has  managed  to  get  himself  into  the  light, 
And  now  he  has  fluttered  to  Johnny's  white  bed 
And  settled  himself  on  our  darlin's  bald  head; 
The  voice  of  the  child  is  the  voice  of  the  vtdre — 
O  Nora,  me  honey,  you're  losin'  your  hair! 

"  Nora,  me  honey,  the  rolls  that  ye  made 
They  rise  with  the  dawn,  like  the  birds  in  the 

glade; 

And  so  when  I  ate  them  I'm  up  sure  as  fate, 
For,  darlin',  they  don'  rise  till  after  they're  ate. 

Say,  that  doesn't  sound  right,  does  it? 
There  was  something  the  matter  with  that 
metronome,  confound  it! 

"  I  love  you  as  much  as  I  did  on  the  morn, 
Nora,  me  honey,  ye  trod  on  me  corn. 
The  cost  of  plain  livin'  in  modern  New  York  — 
O    Nora,    me    honey,    why    did    we    ever    leave 
Cork! 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        208 

"I'll  have  to  give  it  up!"  cried  the  Over- 
seer in  despair.  "The  metronome  didn't 
keep  time.  It's  too  bad,  too,  it  is  such  a 
fine  poem  otherwise!" 

"Well,  Mr.  Stedman,"  said  Mark  Twain 
consolingly,  "there's  one  comfort — it'll  fit 
into  your  collected  poems  much  better  as 
it  is  than  if  the  metronome  had  been  in 
perfect  order. 

"And  now,  gentlemen,"  continued  the 
presiding  judge,  addressing  the  accused 
collectively,  "you  have  had  opportunity,  I 
will  not  say  enjoyed  opportunity,  to 
judge  of  the  gravity  of  each  other's  of- 
fences; it  is  for  you  to  decide  whether 
they  are  of  such  a  nature  as  to  deserve  the 
guillotine.  Paper  is  before  you,  so  let 
each  one  of  you  write  down  on  a  slip  the 
names  of  his  seven  colleagues  and  of  him- 
self, and  then  mark  opposite  each  name  a 
cross  or  circle,  according  as  you  vote  for 
death  or  acquittal.  The  majority  for  or 
against  will  decide  in  each  case.  Pro- 
ceed, please,  to  vote." 

In  expectation  of  the  delay  common  to 
deliberations  of  life  and  death,  I  picked  up 


APOLLO-NARIS  POETS  209 

one  of  the  volumes  on  the  table ;  but  hard- 
ly had  I  read  the  initial  poem  before  Mark 
Twain's  voice  broke  the  silence,  instruct- 
ing the  court  officials  to  collect  the  votes. 
Thus  quick  are  poets  to  condemn  each 
other ! 

"I  see  it  will  not  be  necessary  for  the 
court  to  count  the  votes,"  announced  the 
presiding  judge,  after  having  glanced  at 
the  eight  slips.  "I  take  great  pleasure, 
gentlemen,  in  informing  you  that  you  are 
all  condemned  to  the  guillotine  by  the  over- 
whelming vote  of  seven  to  one  in  each 
case.  Who  possibly  could  have  been  the 
person  to  cast  that  one  vote?  Officers,  re- 
move the  prisoners:  we  will  not  sentence 
them  until  next  week." 

Without  a  word  of  protest,  the  eight 
guilty  poets  rose  and  filed  out  of  the  room 
with  their  keepers.  Indeed,  their  faces 
showed  the  delight  which  they  experienced 
at  the  downfall  of  their  rivals,  a  feeling 
which  completely  swallowed  up  grief  at 
their  own  fate. 

When  the  last  one  had  vanished,  I  picked 
up  one  of  the  voting  lists  and  unfolded  it. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        210 

"Why,  what's  this?"  I  cried— "here  are 
nine  votes  on  this  paper,  and  two  are  for 
the  acquittal  of  the  Overseer!  What  does 
that  mean?" 

"Well,"  said  Herford,  "I  guess  it  means 
that  the  metronome  got  in  a  vote,  too." 


VIII.  Historical  Novelties 

Upon  a  Commission  de  lunatico 
inqairendo  for  the  purpose  of  investi- 
gating the  mental  condition  of  "  Ste- 
phen Brice,"  "Malcolm  Vernon," 
"  Tom  Vanrevel,"  et  at., 

It  <was  reported.  That  the  atmo- 
sphere of  insanity  that  pervades 
Historic  Fiction  is  not  due  to  the 
characters  per  se. 

Note.  The  authors  and  the  Read- 
ing Public  were  not  before  the  Com- 
mission for  investigation. 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  213 

Dramatis    Personae: 

Hugh  Wynne  (the  vice  of  Weir  Mitchell),  commis- 
sioner in  lunacy. 

Stephen  Brice  (the  vice  of  Winston  Churchill),  suf- 
fering from  ungrammatical  priggishness. 

Tom  Vanrevel  (the  vice  of  Booth  Tarkington),  with 
the  obsession  that  all  readers  are  fools. 

Malcolm  Vernon  {the  vice  of  Charles  Major),  with  a 
severe  case  of  saccharine  garrulity. 

Darius  Olin  (the  vice  of  Irving  Bacheller),  suffering 
from  general  debility. 

Ralph  Percy  (the  vice  of  Mary  Johnston),  with  a 
mania  for  killing  everybody  in  sight. 

Ex  ojfido :   Mark  Twain,  Oliver  Herford. 

Authors  and  authoresses  in  waiting  (for  recognition). 

Scene:    Hugh  Wynne's  sanatorium,  Philadelphia. 

HUGH  WYNNE— At  the  request  of  the 
presiding  judge  of  the  Literary  Emer- 
gency Court,  I  have  summoned  you  from 
your  books,  gentlemen,  to  examine  you  pro- 
fessionally before  you  are  put  on  trial  for 
your  literary  crimes — there  is  some  doubt, 
namely,  of  your  responsibility  for  your 
deeds,  and  if  it  can  be  shown  that  your  men- 
tal state  is  such 

Stephen  Brice— One  minute,  Doctor !_ for 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        214 

what  form  of  alienation  are  you  going  to 
examine  me? 

Hugh  Wynne — The  alienation  of  money 
under  novel  pretences  is  the  crime,  I  be- 
lieve, with  which  you  are  formally  charged ; 
but  I  shall  confine  my  examination  to  symp- 
toms of  ungrammatical  priggishness,  a  dis- 
ease which  has  attacked  many  of  us  latter- 
day  heroes. 

Stephen  Brice — Priggishness,  Doctor? 
Why,  I  thought  that  was  the  normal,  ap- 
proved state  of  the  hero  of  a  novel. 

Hugh  Wynne — Mr.  Clemens,  this  gentle- 
man shows  no  signs  of  aberration;  you 
yourself  have  heard  his  sensible  remarks  in 
regard  to  priggishness. 

Herford — Set  a  prig  to  catch  a  prig —  But 
what  has  that  to  do  with  syntax? 

Stephen  Brice — My  sales  are  my  own ;  my 
syntax  is  my  secretary's. 

Darius  Olin — A  Daniel  come  to  judg- 
ment !  I  never  had  a  secretary  nor  nobody 
to  correct  my  faults.  I  was  raised  by  a 
bachelor. 

Malcolm  Vernon — Ah,  poor  fellow!  Now, 
the  major  portion  of  my  life  has  been  spent 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  215 

with  women.  Indeed,  I  sometimes  think 
that  my  biographer  himself  was  a  woman 
masking  under  a  man's  name.  Not  once, 
but  a  thousand  times,  has  he  forced  me  to 
burst  forth  into  flowery  adulation  of  the 
novel-buying  sex.  "Ah,  wondrous  and 
glorious  womanhood !"  I  cry  on  page  44 
of  my  diary.  "If  you  had  naught  but  the 
mother  instinct  to  lift  you  above  your  mas- 
ters by  the  hand  of  man-made  laws,  those 
masters  were  still  unworthy  to  tie  the 
strings  of  your  shoes." — That's  the  kind  of 
cheap  stuff  they  like ;  it  pays, 

Tom  Vanrevel — That's  right!  Lay  it  on 
with  a  trowel,  and  you  can't  help  selling. 
Take  my  own  case.  "It  was  not  that  she 
was  merely  lovely,"  I  say  on  page  33  of  my 
history,  "that  her  nose  was  straight  and  her 
chin  dexterously  turned  between  square 
and  oval;  that  her  dark  hair  lay  soft  as  a 
shadow  on  her  white  brow;  not  that  the 
trembling  hand  she  held  against  her  breast 
sprang  from  a  taper  wrist  and  tapered 
again  to  the  tips  of  her  long  fingers; — not 
all  the  exquisite  regularity  of  line  and 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        216 

mould,  nor  simplicity  of  color,  gave 
her " 

Ralph  Percy — Quick,  quick,  my  masters! 
What  is  it  ails  Master  Twain? 

Hugh  Wynne  (after  a  hurried  examina- 
tion)— 'Tis  naught,  I  assure  thee,  only  a 
cloyed  palate. 

First  Author  in  Waiting — I've  seen  many 
similar  cases  during  the  reading  of  my  own 
story,  "A  Carolina  Cavalier."  It's  never 
fatal,  though;  a  good  dose  of  the  classics 
will  cure  it. 

Mark  Twain  (opening  his  eyes) — Come 
here,  Herford.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  riddle. 
What  is  the  difference  between  the  Rev- 
eries of  a  Bacheller  and  the  smallpox? 

Herford — I  suppose  they're  both  taken 
from  other  people. 

Mark  Twain — That's  a  similarity,  not  a 
difference.  The  correct  answer  is  that  the 
smallpox  you  can  get  only  once,  while  the 
Reveries  come  by  the  Darrelful. 

Herford — You  mean  by  the  inkwellful. 
But  tell  me  this:  why  should  the  author  of 
the  Reveries  turn  shepherd  if  the  public 
ever  gets  on  to  him?  Because  he  has  al- 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  217 

ways  shown  such  skill  in  herding  the 
domestic  virtues  in  the  pen  of  platitudes.  I 
lay  awake  nights  thinking  that  up. 

Hugh  Wynne — It  has  the  qualities  of  the 
nightshade.  However,  to  continue  the  ex- 
amination. Major  Brice,  the  Woman's 
Christian  Temperance  Union  has  an- 
nounced that  it  will  boycott  all  the  books  of 
any  writer  whose  grammar  is  not  as  pure  as 
his  morals.  And  they're  after  you. 

Stephen  Brice — After  me?  Why  I  defy 
you  to  discover  a  single  case  of  divorce  be- 
tween subject  and  verb  in  the  entire  dreary 
length  of  my  biography. 

Hugh  Wynne — Ah,  Major,  divorce  is  not 
the  only  evil  of  which  the  members  of  a 
sentence  may  be  guilty — disagreement  is 
almost  equally  reprehensible.  Better  a  din- 
ner of  verbs,  you  know,  than  a  stalled 
writer  and  disagreement  therewith. 

Tom  Vanrevel — Nonsense!  After  you've 
once  made  your  hit,  you  can  write  any  old 
thing  and  it'll  go.  Look  at  me! 

Stephen  Brice — If  the  Tarkative  Gentle- 
man from  Indiana  will  but  give  his  betters 
a  chance  to  be  heard,  I  should  much  like  to 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        218 

bring  this  question  of  syntactical  disagree- 
ment to  a  crisis.  I  defy  you  to  show  me 
one  of  my  relatives  out  of  agreement. 

Herford — It's  a  wise  relative  knows  its 
own  antecedent. 

Hugh  Wynne — That's  a  true  word,  your 
honour.  However,  to  remove  any  doubts 
from  Major  Brice's  mind  on  the  score  of 
grammar,  let  me  cite  one  or  two  sentences 
from  his  book  which  have  been  marked  by 
an  expert  for  this  purpose.  On  page  333 
he  says:  "There  were  many  doting  par- 
ents, whose  boys  had  accepted  the  parole, 
whose  praise  was  a  trifle  lukewarm,  to  be 
sure."  The  annotator  seems  in  doubt 
whose  "whose"  that  second  "whose"  may 
be.  But  it's  a  delicate  matter  to  interfere 
between  relatives,  unless  you're  mighty  cer- 
tain you  know  what's  wrong  yourself.  So 
let's  get  off  thin  ice.  Here's  a  better  ex- 
ample, page  44 — "young  Colfax  did  not 
seem  to  be  the  kind  who  would  relish  re- 
turning to  a  young  lady  and  acknowledge  a 
defeat."  Major,  present  participles  like  to 
flock  together,  if  you'll  only  give  'em  a 
chance  by  not  cutting  off  their  tails.  It's 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  219 

the  little  word  "nor,"  however,  that  plays 
you  the  worst  tricks.  "You,  nor  the  May- 
or," you  say  on  page  216,  "nor  the  rest  of 
the  grave  and  elderly  gentlemen  were  not 
blinded  by  the  light  of  a  royal  presence." 
It's  too  bad  the  way  these  double  negatives 
will  creep  in.  They  do  it  again  on  page  36, 
and  on  page  357:  "Sad  to  relate  that  her 
bandages  nor  her  shirts  nor  her  havelocks 
never  reached  the  front."  What  do  you 
think  of  that,  gentlemen? 

Herford — I  should  say  that  a  negative 
well  in  hand  is  worth  two  in  a  sentence. 

Darius  Olin  (in  awed  tones) — I  never 
realized  there  was  so  much  in  grammar,  be- 
fore. I've  always  just  slapped  down  the 
words  the  first  way  they  occurred  to  me. 
Haven't  you,  Vanrevel? 

Tom  Vanrevel — Of  course !  This  thing's 
all  nonsense.  I  tell  you  the  public's  a  fool. 
Didn't  they  swallow  me  without  question? 
What  better  proof  do  you  want? 

Ralph  Percy — Now,  look  here,  I'm  a 
peaceable  man,  but  I  haven't  had  a  chance 
to  kill  anybody  since  this  seance  began,  and 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        220 

I'm  not  used  to  going  so  long  without 
blood. 

Malcolm  Vernon — What  makes  you  so 
bloodthirsty,  anyway,  Captain  Percy? 

Ralph  Percy — Because  my  biographer  is 
a  woman.  I  tell  you,  when  a  woman's 
bloody,  she's  bloody  for  keeps.  No  Achilles 
heel  business  for  her.  You  remember  that 
fight  of  mine  on  the  island  when  I  made 
the  pirates  elect  me  their  captain?  Well, 
when  my  biographer  was  talking  over  the 
scene  with  me,  I  told  her  how  unreasonable 
it  was  to  ask  me  to  down  so  many  fellows 
at  once.  In  fact,  I  flatly  refused  the  job, 
until  she  threatened  to  leave  me  to  die  of 
thirst  on  the  island — didn't  know  how  to 
get  me  off  otherwise — so  of  course  I  had  to 
yield  in  the  end.  Strange  what  necessity 
and  woman  will  drive  a  man  to. 

Hugh  Wynne — Mr.  Clemens,  one  thing 
at  least  is  clear  by  this  time — Captain  Percy 
is  not  responsible  for  his  actions.  As  he 
himself  has  said,  when  a  bloodthirsty 
woman  gets  the  upper  hand  of  a  man, 
there's  no  telling  where  she  will  stop.  How- 
ever, that  has  nothing  to  do  with  Major 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  221 

Brice's  case.  Has  your  honour  any  ques- 
tions you  would  like  to  ask  him? 

Mark  Twain — Well,  yes,  I  might  as  well 
take  advantage  of  this  opportunity  to  ques- 
tion him  on  his  German — it  is  almost  up  to 
Miss  Corelli's  French. 

Stephen  Brice — My  German,  sir?  Now, 
that's  a  point  on  which  I  am  absolutely 
bombcnfcst.  I  once  took  a  six  weeks'  course 
in  a  summer  school  of  languages  during  my 
holidays. 

Mark  Twain — Well,  I  must  admit  your 
German  sounds  as  though  it  were  off  for  a 
holiday.  However,  example  is  better  than 
precept.  On  page  84  your  friend  Richter 
sings  a  German  song  in  the  following  novel 
manner : 

Deittschlands  Sohne 

Laut  ertbne 

Euer  Vaterlandgesang. 

Vaterland!  Du  land  des  Rithmcs, 

IVeiJi1  su  deines  Heiligthuntes 

Jfiifern,  uns  -und  wiser  Sckwcrt. 

Do  you  know  how  many  mistakes  are  in 
those  six  lines,  Major? 

Stephen   Brice — How    many — seven? 

Mark  Twain — No,  sir,  it  is  not  quite  as 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        222 


bad  as  that — but  two's  enough.  The  Ger- 
mans have  an  ineradicable  prejudice  against 
writing  nouns  with  a  small  letter,  even  the 
noun  "Land" ;  and,  further,  they  insist  upon 
calling  a  protector  "lli'itcr"  despite  the  ef- 
forts of  American  authors  to  change  the 
practice. 

Stephen  Brice — Your  honour,  those  were 
merely  mistakes  of  the  compositor.  Surely 
you  wouldn't  hold  me  responsible  for  his 
oversights? 

Mark  Twain — Ah,  that  convenient  type- 
setter— what  burdens  the  poor  fellow  is 
called  upon  to  bear!  I  suppose  he's  the 
one  also  who  made  the  mistake  on  page  120, 
and  who  conceived  of  the  strange  Volks- 
melodie  on  page  206:  "Bcmooster  Bursche 
zeitt  ich  ans, — Ade!"  I  don't  wonder  when 
he  heard  this,  as  you  say,  "a  big  tear  rolled 
down  the  scar  on  Richter's  cheek."  If  he 
hadn't  wept  at  this  abuse  of  his  mother 
tongue,  I'd  have  lost  all  respect  for  him. 

Stephen  Brice — Is  there  anything  more, 
your  honour? 

Mark  Twain — Anything  more?  No,  be- 
cause there's  no  more  German  in  your  book, 


223 


excepting  some  "strevers"  with  a  "v"  and  a 
small  "s."  Yet  a  moment  before  you  had 
the  presumption  to  assure  us  that  although 
"the  beer-garden  by  the  side  of  the  restau- 
rant to  which  they  went  was  dreary  and 
bedraggled — inside,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, it  was  German."  But  to  come  back 
to  English,  Herford  here  was  complaining 
to  me  of  the  manner  in  which  you  got  the 
subjunctive  confused  in  the  protasis  of  your 
conditional  sentences 

Herford  (plucking  his  sleeve) — Here, 
here !  You've  got  me  mixed  up  with  some- 
body else.  I  never  so  much  as  heard  of  a 
protoplasm.  It  must  have  been  our  col- 
league. 

Stephen  Brice — I'm  glad  you've  brought 
up  that  question  of  the  subjunctive,  your 
honour.  It's  a  thing  I've  never  seemed  able 
to  use  correctly.  Now,  for  instance,  this 
sentence:  "So  absorbed  was  he  in  contem- 
plation of  this,  and  in  wondering  whether 
she  were  to  marry  her  cousin,  Clarence 
Colfax,  etc."  I  remember  asking  myself 
whether  that  "were"  were  right  or  was 
wrong.  But  how  was  I  to  know?  My  sec- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        224 

retary  was  off  for  the  day.  In  fact,  there 
are  lots  of  those  subjunctives  in  my  book 
that  I'm  in  doubt  about. 

Mark  Twain — And  well  you  may  be,  sir. 
Fortunately,  however,  it's  not  necessary  for 
an  author  to  be  able  to  write  grammatically 
nowadays ;  we  haven't  time  for  education. 

Stephen  Brice — That's  it,  your  honour,  in 
order  to  make  an  educated  man,  as  Victor 
Hugo  said  about  making  a  gentleman,  you 
have  to  start  with  his  grandfather.  And  as 
you  know,  my  wife's  great-grandfather, 
Richard  Carvel,  wasn't  able,  either,  to  dis- 
tinguish between  an  adverb  and  a  par- 
ticiple. If  you'll  excuse  me,  though,  I 
think  I'll  lie  down  on  the  sofa  for  a  few 
minutes — I  feel  my  small  amount  of  vitality 
running  low.  (Faints.) 

Ralph  Percy  (catching  him  and  laying 
him  down) — Why,  this  man's  dead!  Did 
I  perchance  kill  him  inadvertently?  Will 
somebody  please  write  and  ask  my  biog- 
rapher? 

Hugh  Wynne  (opening  the  patient's 
shirt) — My  goodness,  this  is  not  a  man! 
He's  only  a  lay  figure.  (Aside.)  Suppose 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  225 


they  should  discover  that  I'm  only  a  lay  fig- 
ure myself! 

Herford — Never  count  your  lay  figures 
before  they're  patched. 

Mark  Twain — Well,  what  are  we  going 
to  do  with  this  graven  image?  He  looks 
enough  like  a  man  to  sell  him  to  the  Eden 
Musee. 

Hugh  Wynne — No,  that  won't  do,  we'd 
only  get  his  intrinsic  value  for  him,  and 
that  wouldn't  pay  for  the  cartage.  I  have 
a  better  scheme  than  that,  and  one,  I  think, 
that'll  work — let  somebody  say  a  bad  word 
in  his  ear  and  shock  him  into  seeming  vital- 
ity again.  Do  any  of  you  know  how  to 
swear? 

Malcolm  Vernon — I  used  to  once  upon  a 
time,  before  I  came  under  the  softening  in- 
fluence of  love,  that  is  whispered  by  the 
sighing  winds ;  of  love,  that  makes  men  and 
women  like  unto  gods;  of  love,  that  is  the 
burden  of  the  fleecy  clouds  as  they  float  in 
the  sweet,  restful  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky, 
of  love- 

Herford — Here,  here,  you  must  have  been 
reading  "When  Knighthood  Was  Flow- 


226 


ery."  Unfortunately  the  waste-pipe  is 
stopped  up.  Mr.  Olin,  don't  you  think  you 
might  scare  up  an  oath  for  the  occasion? 

Darius  Olin — Well,  I'm  but  a  rough  sol- 
dier, but  I'll  do  my  best.  (Leaning  over 
and  shouting  in  Brice's  ear.)  Jcrushy  Jane 
Pepper! 

Malcolm  Vernon — I  thought  I  saw  his 
left  eyelid  move. 

Hugh  Wynne — Yes,  I  saw  it,  too,  but  the 
shock  was  not  great  enough.  Mr.  Olin, 
haven't  you  a  stronger  expletive  than  that? 

Darius  Olin — I  am  but  a  rough  soldier, 
sir,  unversed  in  the  ways  of  schools  and 
courts,  but  even  my  profanity  has  its  limi- 
tations. I  have  given  you  the  best  I  have. 

Hugh  Wynne — Well,  I  don't  know  what 
we'll  do  about  it.  Our  only  chance  lies  in 
shocking  this  man  into  a  semblance  of  life. 
Hasn't  anybody  an  oath  about  him? 

Mark  Twain — Can't  you  get  one  up  for 
the  occasion  yourself,  Doctor? 

Hugh  Wynne — Oh,  my,  no,  sir!  You 
know  I  belong  to  the  modern  anaemic 
school  of  literature,  whose  blood  is  without 
red  corpuscles.  A  novel  I  should  define  as 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  227 

a  collection  of  six  hundred  pages  or  more 
of  conversation  and  description,  with  a 
minimum  of  incident  and  a  maximum  of 
padding.  You  see,  therefore,  how  impossi- 
ble a  swearword  is  to  me. 

Herford — Couldn't  you  accommodate  us, 
Captain  Percy? 

Ralph  Percy — No,  sir,  under  no  circum- 
stances. When  my  governess  started  me 
on  my  mad  career,  she  said  to  me :  "Ralph, 
go  forth  and  multiply  impossible  achieve- 
ments, kill  as  many  men  as  you've  a  mind 
to,  but  never  forget  your  refinement."  And 
I  have  held  her  words  sacred. 

Tom  Vanrevel — Here,  I'll  swear,  if  it  has 
to  be  done.  We  can't  waste  all  day  over 
this  lay  figure.  I'll  give  him  a  good  strong 
Indiana  oath,  fimminy-crimminy! 

Darius  Olin — He  moved  that  time  dis- 
tinctly. It  was  a  wicked  word,  though. 

Hugh  Wynne — Can't  you  go  one  a  little 
stronger,  Mr.  Vanrevel?  Just  a  little  bit 
stronger? 

Tom  Vanrevel  (glancing  around  nervous- 
ly)— Are  there  any  reporters  present? 

Hugh  Wynne — No,  you're  perfectly  safe. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        228 

Tom  Vanrevel — And  you  all  promise  not 
to  betray  me  if  I  do  it? 

Chorus — Deal  with  us  as  we  deal  with 
you. 

Tom  Vanrevel— Well,  then,  I'll  risk  it. 
Close  your  ears,  all  of  you,  lest  I  shock  you 
into  seeming  vitality.  (Shouting  into  the 
ear  of  Stephen  Brice.)  Damn! 

Stephen  Brice  (jumping  to  his  feet) — 
Where  am  I?  What  did  I  hear?  Somebody 
swore  in  my  presence!  Oh,  what  would 
Mr.  Mabie  say  to  this! 

Hugh  Wynne — Calm  yourself,  Major,  he 
shall  never  hear  of  it.  Nothing  but  neces- 
sity would  have  caused  us  to  resort  to  such 
extreme  measures. 

Mark  Twain — Kindly  sit  down,  Major, 
and  in  a  very  short  time  I  promise  to  send 
you  back  to  your  book,  the  support  of 
whose  cardboard  covers  you  seem  to  need, 
in  the  manner  that  certain  German  army 
officers  are  said  to  require  the  support  of 
stays.  You  ought  never  to  have  ventured 
forth  from  that  haven  of  the  still-born. 
Pray  continue,  Doctor. 

Hugh  Wynne — There  seems  little  need 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  229 

to  prolong  the  examination.  By  this  time, 
surely,  you  have  gained  a  clear  conception 
of  the  mental  state  of  these  gentlemen. 
Should  we  not  spare  their  relatives  further 
shock? 

Herford — I  should  like  to  ask  Mr.  Vernon 
a  question. 

Malcolm  Vernon — Yes,  sir,  what  is  it? 

Herford — Mr.  Vernon,  the  eagle  is  said 
to  be  one  of  the  few  species  of  birds,  if  not 
the  only  species,  the  female  of  which  is 
larger  and  stronger  and  altogether  more 
impressive  than  the  male.  Do  you  see  any 
possible  reason  for  the  American  people  to 
change  its  national  bird? 

Malcolm  Vernon — Your  honour,  time  but 
serves  further  to  demonstrate  the  wisdom 
of  the  Fathers  of  the  Republic,  to  show  the 
prophetic  quality  of  their  minds.  The  only 
thing  I  can  suggest  is  for  Congress  to  ap- 
point a  committee  to  make  sure  that  all 
the  eagles  on  our  flags  and  coins  are 
eaglesses. 

Herford  (to  Mark  Twain) — What  canny 
answers  the  man  gives !  No  need  to  minis- 
ter to  a  mind  diseased  like  that. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        230 


Mark  Twain — And  you,  Major  Brice, 
what  bird  do  you  think  most  appropriate 
for  National  purposes? 

Stephen  Brice — Well,  since  our  literary 
men  are  going  more  and  more  into  politics, 
I  should  suggest  the  secretary  bird. 

Herford — Out  of  the  fulness  of  the  heart 
the  mouth  speaketh. 

Mark  Twain — I  must  confess,  Doctor, 
these  heroes  seem  as  men,  knowing  good 
and  evil.  Surely  they  must  have  realized 
what  they  were  about  when  they  assumed 
the  cothurnus  to  gain  a  height  not  their 
own. 

Hugh  Wynne — I'm  not  so  certain  of  that, 
you  know  megacephalousness  is  a  very  sub- 
tle and  deceptive  disease.  Even  specialists 
are  apt  to  make  mistakes.  With  your  per- 
mission, however,  I  should  like  to  ask  them 
a  few  questions  as  to  their  views  on  the 
novel.  Their  replies  should  possess  both 
historical  and  pathological  value. 

Mark  Twain — Question  them  by  all 
means.  As  Virgil  exclaims:  "tantaene  ani- 
mis  caclcstibus  irac?" 

Hugh  Wynne — Well,  now,  Mr.  Vernon, 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  231 


suppose  we  begin  with  you,  working  up  to 
the  heavyweights.  Won't  you  kindly  let 
us  have  the  benefit  of  your  ideas  on  the 
novel  ? 

Malcolm  Vernon — With  pleasure.  I  can 
give  you  my  ideas  in  a  sentence.  All  this 
talk  about  the  art  of  the  novel  is  nonsense. 
Just  remember  one  thing  and  you're  all 
right:  there  are  more  flies  caught  with 
molasses  than  with  vinegar.  Do  you  take 
me? 

Mark  Twain — I  do,  indeed,  Mr.  Vernon; 
your  remarks  are  most  pregnant.  But  tell 
me  this — are  you  not  afraid  thus  to  give 
away  the  secret  of  your  success? 

Malcolm  Vernon — Not  a  bit,  I've  got  the 
biggest  molasses-pot  going — not  even  ex- 
cepting Cyrus  Townsend  Brady's. 

Mark  Twain — I  doubt  it,  but  still —  So 
your  opinion,  Mr.  Vernon,  is  that  molasses 
and  literature  are  synonymous? 

Malcolm  Vernon — Precisely — it  all  de- 
pends on  the  size  of  your  jug. 

Mark  Twain — Pray  continue,  Doctor. 

Hugh  Wynne — And  now,  Mr.  Olin,  sup- 
pose you  let  us  have  your  views  on  the 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        232 

question  of  the  novel — they  should  be  orig- 
inal, at  least. 

Darius  Olin — I  don't  know  as  I  have 
no  views.  I  should  say,  just  meander  along 
with  a  paraphrase  of  the  Psalm  of  Life  and 
an  occasional  unacknowledged  quotation 
from  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  done  into 
Northern  New  York  dialect — and  there  you 
are.  If  that  ain't  easy,  I  don't  know  what  is. 

Mark  Twain — By  George,  these  fellows 
speak  the  truth,  at  least !  They  don't  seem 
to  mind  giving  the  snap  away  at  all.  And 
you,  Captain  Percy,  what  are  your  views? 

Ralph  Percy — Well,  sir,  nothing  in  this 
life  is  perfect,  not  even  the  book  in  which  I 
appear.  I  should  say,  therefore,  that  the 
novelist's  aim  should  be  to  get  a  good  story 
and  then  to  spoil  it  by  piling  on  the  impos- 
sible adventures  and  bloodletting  until  the 
reader  throws  down  the  book  in  disgust. 
It's  the  way  to  get  people  to  talk  about  it. 

Mark  Twain — There's  a  good  deal  in 
what  you  say,  Captain  Percy,  a  good  deal. 
As  for  you,  Major  Brice,  I  guess  we  know 
pretty  well  your  views  on  the  novel,  gram- 
matical mistakes  and  all.  You  give  us  the 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  233 

matter  in  a.  nutshell,  I  take  it,  on  page  250 
of  your  narrative,  when  you  exclaim :  "Alas, 
that  chronicles  may  not  stretch  so  as  to  em- 
brace all  the  great  men  of  a  time."  We 
need  hardly  waste  further  time  on  you. — 
"Bemooster  Bnrschc,  ziehc  ans!"  And  now, 
Mr.  Vanrevel,  you  are  the  only  one  remain- 
ing. What  is  your  aim  in  the  novel? 

Tom  Vanrevel — My  aim?  Why,  to  sell 
it,  of  course. 

Mark  Twain — Yes,  but  aside  from  com- 
mercialism, what  should  be  a  novelist's 
standard? 

Tom  Vanrevel — With  his  first  or  later 
books? 

Mark  Twain — Well,  with  any  book.  Is 
there  a  difference? 

Tom  Vanrevel — I  should  say  there  was! 
With  his  first  book  an  author  should  take 
the  greatest  pains  possible,  and  perhaps 
also  with  his  second.  After  that,  let  him 
insult  his  readers  with  any  old  trash  he  can 
sling  together — the  worse  it  is,  the  better. 
Look  at  me !  Nobody  but  a  fool  could  have 
really  mistaken  me  for  Crailey  Gray,  but 
the  public  continues  to  accept  the  legend — 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        234 

hence  the  public's  a  fool.  Quod  crat  demon- 
strandum. 

Mark  Twain — Doctor,  this  new  genera- 
tion is  too  much  for  me;  I  give  'em  up. 
When  Herford  and  I  were  young,  if  we 
wrote  a  rotten  thing  we  sought  to  bury  it 
out  of  sight  as  quickly  as  possible;  now 
they  try  to  sell  it  as  quickly  as  possible.  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  your  professional 
opinion  as  to  the  responsibility  of  the  heroes 
under  examination. 

Hugh  Wynne — That  is  very  quickly 
done,  your  honour.  Stephen  Brice,  being, 
as  we  have  seen,  but  a  lay  figure,  is  of 
course  without  the  purview  both  of  the  law 
and  of  medicine.  Recalling  his  reference 
to  Victor  Hugo,  however,  I  should  strongly 
advise  him  to  read  that  poet's  production  on 
"L'art  d'etre  grand-pere."  In  the  case  of 
Captain  Percy,  we  have  seen  that  his  mania 
for  manslaughter  has  been  superinduced 
solely  by  association  with  Bloody  Mary;  so 
that  he  cannot  be  held  responsible.  Mal- 
colm Vernon,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must 
regard  as  a  very  sick  man,  and  therefore  de- 
serving of  our  charity — saccharine  garrulity, 


HISTORICAL  NOVELTIES  235 

I  tell  you,  is  a  disease  not  to  be  sneezed  at. 
Indeed,  it  may  be  regarded  as  a  form  of 
mental  diabetes. 

Malcolm  Vernon  (anxiously) — Is  that 
ever  fatal,  Doctor? 

Hugh  Wynne — Only  to  reputations,  sir. 
But  to  continue.  There  remain  but  two 
cases :  Darius  Olin  and  Tom  Vanrevel.  The 
first  of  these  shows  all  the  signs  of  general 
debility  and  literary  disintegration,  so  that 
it  is  unnecessary  to  hasten  his  demise.  Be- 
sides, there  are  distinct  signs  of  the  ap- 
proaching bursting  of  his  bubble.  In  the 
case  of  Mr.  Vanrevel,  we  have  a  clear  in- 
stance of  the  impotence  of  the  law.  On  the 
one  hand,  I  could  not  with  a  clear  con- 
science take  the  stand  and  swear  to  his  irre- 
sponsibility— he  deserves  prosecution  for 
saying  the  public's  a  fool  and  for  acting  ac- 
cordingly— but  on  the  other  hand,  if  you 
bring  him  to  trial,  undoubtedly  he  will 
plead  the  truth  of  his  words  and  cite  the 
public's  acceptance  of  himself  as  his  justifi- 
cation. So  you  are  powerless. 

Mark    Twain    (sadly) — I    believe   you're 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        236 

right,  our  hands  are  tied.  What  would  you 
advise,  Herford? 

Herford — In  the  case  of  Major  Brice,  I 
think  I  should  advise  an  operation  for  dis- 
guised multiform  appendices.  The  others,  un- 
doubtedly, may  safely  be  left  to  posterity. 

Mark  Twain — Come,  let's  get  out  of  this 
as  quickly  as  possible,  Herford.  Death  has 
always  moved  me  strongly,  even  if  it  be 
only  the  death  of  literary  reputations.  Good- 
day,  Doctor,  we  are  much  indebted  to  you 
for  your  kindness  in  this  matter. 

Hugh  Wynne — Not  at  all,  your  honour. 
I  am  always  glad  to  use  the  scalpel  on  my 
rivals.  I  am  at  your  service  at  any  time. 

Exeunt  Mark  Twain  and  Herford,  fol- 
lowed by  the  crowd  of  disappointed  authors 
and  authoresses  in  waiting. 


IX.  The  Otherwise  Men 

At  an  informal  sitting  in  camera, 
cur  adi>.  wait.,  the  question  as  to  the 
identity  of  literature  and  business 
being  under  discussion,  by  a  strong 
majority  it  was 

'Decided,  That  the  two  terms  are 
inseparable,  interchangeable  and  un- 
thinkable save  in  conjunction  ;  and  it 
•was  further 

'Decided,  That  as  a  practical  prop- 
osition the  reformation  of  literature 
is  desired  neither  by  the  servant 
girls,  editors  nor  writers,  and  the 
Court  -was  therefore  adjourned  until 
the  commencement  of  the  next  ensu- 
ing term. 


OTHERWISE  MEN  239 

WE  were  speaking  of  the  Easy  Chair  a 
short  while  before  Mr.  Howells  and 
Mr.  Alden  arrived.  It  came  about  through 
Herford's  asking  this  riddle:  What  is  the 
difference  between  John  Brown  and  Colonel 
Harvey?  The  answer  was:  John  Brown 
freed  the  slaves  at  Harper's  Ferry. 

"There's  a  further  difference,  Herford,'' 
I  said.  "Another  John  Brown,  you  know, 
was  on  extremely  easy  terms  with  royal- 
ties." 

"I  see  you  have  read  'Our  Life  in  the 
Highlands,' "  said  Herford.  "But  let  us 
return  to  our  mutton." 

And  so  we  came  to  be  speaking  of  the 
Easy  Chair  a  short  while  before  Mr.  How- 
ells  arrived. 

To  be  frank,  we  were  discouraged  at  the 
results  achieved  by  the  Literary  Emergency 
Court.  That  is,  all  of  us  were  discouraged 
save  Loomis. 

"The  amount  of  advertising  I've  got  out 
of  these  proceedings,"  he  said,  unctuously 
rubbing  his  hands,  "has  been  most  gratify- 
ing. Two  copies  of  'Yankee  Enchantments' 
were  sold  last  week." 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        240 

"Well,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  lit- 
erature," said  Mark  Twain,  impatiently. 
"What's  the  use,  after  all,  of  our  disinter- 
ested efforts  to  purify  letters?  Here 
we've  tried  Davis  and  Bangs  and  Mat- 
thews and  Mrs.  Ward,  and  we've  Co- 
rellied  Caine,  and  plucked  the  poetasters — 
but  what  have  we  to  show  for  it  all?  Next 
to  nothing.  Frightened  by  the  pressure 
brought  to  bear  upon  him  by  the  Young 
Ladies'  Select  Boarding-Schools  Associa- 
tion of  America,  the  Governor  has  released 
Davis  on  his  own  recognizances,  while  the 
poets  proved  such  extremely  small  fry  that 
they  escaped  through  the  bars  of  their  cells 
without  the  least  difficulty.  And  whom 
have  we  left? — John  Kendrick  Bangs!  I 
feel  as  I  did  the  day  I  went  fishing  for  pick- 
erel and  caught  a  bullhead." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Herford,  "we've  got 
one  of  the  heads,  at  least,  even  if  the  hy- 
drant's not  turned  off.  Besides,  speaking  of 
Captain  Macklin,  I  don't  see  much  differ- 
ence between  a  head  without  an  author  and 
an  author  wthout  a  head.  Do  you,  Loo- 
mis?" 


OTHERWISE  MEN  241 

"Not  when  they're  equally  footless.  How- 
ever, we  mustn't  be  disheartened.  I've  just 
had  a  letter  from  London  from  Clement  K. 
Shorter  saying  that  he  and  Dr.  Robertson 
Nichol  are  with  us,  so  we're  all  right." 

"Well,  there's  some  comfort  in  having 
omniscience  behind  one,"  said  Mark  Twain, 
more  cheerfully,  "even  if  it's  only  Pickwick- 
ian omniscience.  Still,  I'm  glad  that  our 
term  of  service  has  ended,  and  that  we  shall 
be  called  upon  to  try  no  more  authors  for 
their  literary  crimes.  Among  ourselves, 
gentlemen,  I  consider  the  Literary  Guil- 
lotine a  failure.  The  servant  girls  and  ed- 
itors won't  stand  for  it." 

"Richard  Watson  Gilder  and  R.  U.  John- 
son!" announced  the  doorkeeper  most  op- 
portunely, and  the  two  poets  entered  the 
room.  No  one  paid  the  slightest  attention 
to  them,  and  they  sat  down  like  dejected 
manuscripts.  At  the  moment  I  happened 
to  glance  round,  and  lo!  Loomis  was  at- 
tempting to  sneak  out  of  the  room  unob- 
served of  the  Centurions.  Evidently  he  did 
not  wish  to  jeopardize  his  chances  with  fu- 
ture contributions.  Hardly  were  the  two 


242 


Centaurs  seated,  before  R.  W.  drew  out  a 
paper  pad  and  R.  U.  a  pencil,  and  then  be- 
gan a  series  of  whispered  consultations  and 
scribblings  which  foreboded  ill  for  the  sub- 
scribers to  the  magazine. 

"No,  no!"  protested  R.  U.,  counting  on 
his  ringers,  "you've  got  one  too  few  sylla- 
bles in  that  verse.  Put  in  a  'so'  before  the 
adjective.  That's  always  a  good,  easy 
plan." 

"One-two,  three-four,  five-six,  seven- 
eight,  nine-ten,"  counted  R.  W.,  "that's  O. 
K.  Now  for  the  next  line." 

We  were  witnessing  at  close  range  the 
manufacture  of  a  Century  plant! 

"This  being  our  last  meeting,  gentlemen," 
said  Mark  Twain,  raising  his  voice  to  at- 
tract the  attention  of  the  two  expert  ac- 
countants, "I  have  asked,  as  you  are  aware, 
a  number  of  our  leading  editors  and  guar- 
dians of  letters  to  meet  us  here  informally 
this  evening  to  discuss  the  present  de- 
plorable state  of  literature  and  to  suggest 
means  for  its  betterment  before  mortifica- 
tion goes  further.  I  see,  though,  they  are 
late;  it's  ten  minutes  after  the  hour,  and 


OTHERWISE  MEN  243 

~2t ^'-A'-A    -    A  -  -^i---£r L^-^~ -^ -^ -^ -.-•£.     -^ ^ ^- Z~~ 

Howells  promised  to  be  on  hand  promptly 
at  eight  o'clock." 

"Perhaps  Bok  has  set  up  the  beer,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

But  my  little  joke  was  lost  on  Mark 
Twain,  as  he  had  taken  up  Harpers  Maga- 
zine and  turned  to  the  Easy  Chair. 

"Listen  to  what  Silas  Lapham  says  in 
]une  in  his  advertising  department :  'They 
(our  conjectures)  form  the  atmosphere 
in  which  .  .  .  most  of  his  sympathetic  read- 
ers will  turn  the  sibylline  leaves  of  such  a 
book  as  Mr.  ]ohn  Bigelow's  "The  Mystery 
of  Sleep" ' 

"Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers  at 
$1.50,"  interpolated  Herford. 

'.  .  .  which  .  .  .  we  now  have  from  him 
in  a  new  edition.'  Or,  again,  a  year  ago:  'A 
question  which  vexed  this  seat  of  judgment 
( !)  last  month  with  respect  to  the  revival 
of  Dickens  recurs  in  the  presence  of  the  fine 

new  edition  of  Samuel  Richardson's  nov- 
els  » 

"Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers,"  said 
Herford  in  monotonous  voice. 

'.  .  .  which      Professor     William      Lyon 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        244 

Phelps  is  editing  so  interestingly.'  'What 
are  the  conditions  from  which  springs,' 
continued  Mark  Twain,  reading  from  a  later 
number,  'we  will  say,  Mr.  Norris's  theory 
of  the  novel?  Why  is  Mr.  Howells's  de- 
mocracy  ' 

"Published  in  uniform  edition  by  Harper 
&  Brothers." 

'.  .  .  less  convincing  to  the  imagination 
than  Tolstoy's?  What  makes  the  differ- 
ence between  Miss  Wilkins's  "Portion  of 

JL/clDOr    ••••—  •-— 

"Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers." 

' — and,  say,  Hauptmann's  Weavers"?' 
— Herford,"  said  Mark  Twain,  interrupting 
himself  to  regard  the  interpolator  under 
bent  brows,  "you  are  the  best  Greek  chorus 
I  ever  knew.  But  what  do  you  think  is  the 
difference  between  the  democracy  pub- 
lished by  Harper  &  Brothers  and  that  of 
Tolstoy?" 

"Well,  to  judge  by  that  article,"  said  Her- 
ford, "I  think  it's  a  difference  of  howls." 

At  this  moment  R.  U.  rose  to  his  feet  and 
cleared  his  throat  to  attract  our  attention. 

"If  your  honours  please,"   he  said,   "my 


OTHERWISE  MEN  245 

colleague  and  myself  have  just  written  a 
sonnet  which  we  should  like  to  present  for 
your  consideration.  We  make  it  a  practice, 
you  must  know,  to  write  a  sonnet  every 
time  we  have  ten  minutes  on  our  hands." 

"Together?"  asked  Mark  Twain  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"Yes,  we  write  alternate  lines,  and  then  at 
the  end  we  toss  a  coin  to  see  which  one  shall 
sign  it." 

"Ah,  I  see !  You  have  given  us  the  long- 
sought  clue  to  your  poetry.  However,  we 
can't  allow  this  poussc  cafe  to  be  drunk  aloud 
on  an  empty  stomach.  Timco  Danaos  ct  dona 
fcrcntis.  But  in  compensation  I'll  ask  you  a 
riddle.  What  is  the  difference  between  the 
Presbyterian  Church  and  the  Century 
Magazine?  Can  no  one  guess  it?  Well,  this 
is  it.  In  the  case  of  the  Presbyterian  Church 
you  subscribe  once  for  all  to  infant  damna- 
tion, while  in  the  other  case  you  do  it  peri- 
odically." 

What  might  have  been  the  result  of  this 
indiscreet  riddle,  it  is  impossible  to  say,  had 
not  the  door  opened  and  disclosed  Mr. 
Howells  and  Mr.  Alden  on  the  threshold. 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        246 

Behind  them  stood  the  editor  of  the  La- 
dies' Home  Journal  and  Mr.  W.  C.  Brown- 
ell. 

"Ah,  gentlemen,  you  have  come  at  last !" 
cried  Mark  Twain.  "I  had  begun  to  think 
conscience  had  made  cowards  of  you  all." 

"It  wasn't  that  which  detained  us,"  said 
Mr.  Alden,  with  a  sly  smile,  secure  in  the 
knowledge  that  no  one  could  accuse  him  of 
being  an  author;  "the  trouble  was  we 
couldn't  get  Bok  through  the  Tenderloin." 

"Mr.  Alden,"  cried  the  Gentleman  from 
Philadelphia,  "how  can  you  give  currency 
to  such  a  slander?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  that  you  wanted  to 
linger  there !  On  the  contrary,  I  meant  that 
we  had  to  make  an  excursion  round  it  on 
your  account.  In  that  sense  we  couldn't 
get  you  through  it." 

"Ah,  that's  another  matter!"  sighed  the 
great  editor.  "Gentlemen,  I  believe  that 
the  man  cannot  be  too  careful  into  whose 
keeping  has  been  given  the  trust  and  con- 
fidence of  the  daughters  and  wives  of  the 
farmers  of  Long  Island.  Why,  in  our  press- 
room I  won't  even  allow  a  fly-wheel " 


OTHERWISE  MEN  247 

"Come,  come!"  interrupted  Mark  Twain, 
"we've  come  here  to  discuss  tougher  ques- 
tions than  the  Tenderloin  and  fly-wheels, 
our  gynecological  friend  here  to  the  con- 
trary notwithstanding." 

"It's  against  my  principle,  then,  to  listen 
to  such  a  discussion,"  said  the  previous 
speaker,  making  as  though  to  take  his  hat. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bok,"  said  Mark  Twain, 
soothingly,  "if  it's  against  your  principal, 
as  a  matter  of  Curtisy  we  must  yield 
to  your  objections.  We  must  all  follow 
our  principals,  no  matter  what  the  Harvey- 
est  may  be.  Is  not  that  true,  Mr.  How- 
ells?" 

"Absolutely,  sir.  It's  the  only  way  in 
which  a  classic  can  keep  from  starving." 

"And,  now,"  continued  Mark  Twain, 
"since  we  are  one  on  the  question  of  prin- 
cipal and  interest,  suppose  we  get  down  to 
business.  Mr.  Brownell,  what  have  you  to 
propose  in  the  present  crisis?" 

"Mr.  Clemens,"  said  the  great  critic,  in 
the  delightfully  non-committal,  neverthe- 
less -  to  -  the  -  contrary-notwithstandinsf-how - 
ever-although  manner  of  his  essays,  "though 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        248 

not  the  editor  of  Scribncr's  Magazine,  nor 
even  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy's  'Lamp/  yet 
I  am  authorized  to  speak  for  the  magazine 
as  well  as  for  the  publishing  house  in  this 
matter  of  literature." 

"Literature?"  said  Mark  Twain.  "Why, 
I  didn't  know  that  literature  was  con- 
cerned. As  you  yourself  can  testify,  in  this 
inquiry  we  have  confined  ourselves  strictly 
to  non-literary  persons.  Just  run  through 
the  list  of  those  whom  we  have  tried.  How- 
ever, we  won't  quarrel  about  terms.  What 
have  you  to  say,  Mr.  Brownell,  that  you 
have  not  already  given  in  print  to  a  thank- 
less world?" 

"Nothing,  Mr.  Clemens,  since  I  have 
learned  that  the  Governor  has  released 
Davis.  With  Browning  I  exclaim 

"  '  God's  in  his  heaven  — 

All's  right  with  the  world!'' 

"Tut,  tut!"  cried  Howells,  impatiently, 
"Davis  is  of  no  importance  to  literature,  he 
doesn't  publish  with  Harper's  any  longer. 
Let's  stick  to  books  that  count.  What 


OTHERWISE  MEN  249 

about  Charles  Waldo  Haskins's  'How  to 
Keep  Household  Accounts'?" 

"When  I  was  a  boy  many  years  ago  up 
in  Vermont,"  began  Mr.  Alden,  quoting 
from  the  Editor's  Study,  "our  chief  literary 
pabulum  was  'Peter  Parley'  and  'Pilgrim's 
Progress/  Our  young  minds " 

At  this  point  Herford  interrupted: 

"  You're  old,  Father  Henry,  and  love  to  discourse 
Of  your  knowledge  of  Paleontology, 

Of  the  days  when  a  boy  in  the  Miocene  Age  — 
You  ought  to  write  books  on  Geology." 

"Well,  Mr.  Brownell,"  said  Mark  Twain 
at  the  close  of  this  interruption,  "it  is  most 
encouraging  to  find  that  you  believe  litera- 
ture saved  through  the  release  of  Davis, 
who,  by  the  way,  publishes  with  Scribner's, 
I  believe.  Perhaps,  however,  Mr.  Howells 
has  something  to  suggest." 

"Simply  this — let  Davis  go  hang,  he 
doesn't  publish  with  Harper's  any  longer. 
Release  Bangs  from  the  asylum,  and  substi- 
tute Matthews.  The  Professor's  books 
don't  sell,  anyhow." 

"I  see,  Mr.  Howells.     Certainly  no   one 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        250 


can  accuse  you  of  not  taking  a  practical 
view  of  literature." 

"No  one,  sir.  That's  what  my  boss  al- 
ways says  to  me.  'Mr.  Howells,'  he  said 
only  the  other  day,  'the  Easy  Chair  is  the 
best  advertising  medium  Harper's  pos- 
sesses. The  way  you  manage  to  ring  in  our 
books  while  apparently  writing  on  matters 
literary,  is  a  subject  for  constant  wonder.' 
But,  come,  let  us  get  back  to  business. 
What  were  you  aiming  at  with  this  Literary 
Guillotine,  anyhow?  You  didn't  really 
hope  to  reform  literature,  did  you?" 

"I  did,  Mr.  Howells,  but  since  hearing 
you  talk  to-night,  I  see  that  we  were  merely 
saving  at  the  spigot  while  it  was  leaking  at 
the  bung-hole." 

"Speaking  of  bung-holes,"  began  Mr.  Al- 
den  again,  "when  I  was  a  boy  up  in  Ver- 
mont, every  fall  we  used  to  make  cider " 

"Mr.  Clemens,"  excitedly  cried  the  editor 
of  the  Woman's  Medical  Journal,  "I  must 
protest!  If  this  constant  reference  to  in- 
toxicating beverages  continues,  I  must  seek 
safety  in  flight." 

On  Mr.  Alden's  explaining,  however,  that 


OTHERWISE  MEN  251 

his  reference  was  to  sweet  cider  only,  the 
protest  was  withdrawn,  and  the  discussion 
continued. 

"It  must  be  admitted,  I  think,"  said 
Mark  Twain,  "that  this  court  has  been  ex- 
traordinarily unlucky  in  failing  to  secure  a 
conviction  in  the  most  important  cases.  Our 
greatest  blow,  however,  was  in  the  acquit- 
tal of  the  three  preachers." 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  have  cared  about  Hillis 
and  Van  Dyke,"  said  Mr.  Howells  earnest- 
ly. "But  Brady's  a  different  proposition; 
his  last  book  appeared  with  Harper's,  you 
know." 

"And  I  am  of  the  opinion,"  said  the 
American  Sainte-Beuve,  "that  Brady  might 
easily  have  been  spared.  But  Van  Dyke 
is  one  of  Scribner's  proteges.  Had  you  con- 
victed him,  I  should  have  been  forced  to 
call  out  the  Christian  Endeavorers  and  the 
Epworth  League  against  you.  And  you 
know  they  are  mostly  women." 

"Gentlemen,  you  are  very  commercial  in 
your  views,"  said  Bok,  reprovingly.  "The 
only  one  of  the  three  worth  saving  was 
Hillis.  He's  engaged,  as  he  told  you,  to 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        252 


write  a  series  of  articles  for  the  Journal 
this  year  on  'Platitudes  and  Their  Practical 
Uses.'  " 

In  the  excitement  of  the  discussion  R.  W. 
and  R.  U.  had  been  quite  forgotten,  and 
they  had  continued  the  production  of  son- 
nets undisturbed.  Now,  however,  the 
lesser  of  the  two  evils  sprang  into  the 
breach. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  rising  and  speak- 
ing in  solemn  manner,  "if  you  will  pardon 
me,  I  think  you  are  forgetting  the  dignity  of 
your  positions.  You  are  giving  the  snap 
away  entirely  too  freely.  Writers  may  be 
relatively  important,  but  it's  the  editors,  in 
the  last  analysis,  upon  whom  literature  de- 
pends. We  are  the  ones  who  confine  it  to 
the  plane  of  the  trite  and  the  innocuous, 
who  guard  it  from  invasion  by  drastic, 
flesh-and-blood  writers,  such  as  Andrew 
Carnegie,  with  a  message  to  deliver.  Think 
what  literature  would  be  were  it  not  for  us ! 
Why,  only  yesterday  in  speaking  with  me 
of  the  Literary  Guillotine,  the  editor  of 
Town  Topics  remarked  that  what  he  ob- 
jected to  in  the  series  were  not  the  senti- 


OTHERWISE  MEN  253 

ments,  but  the  personal  tone,  which,  he 
said,  it  was  always  his  aim  to  avoid." 

"Isn't  it  strange  how  men  differ!"  said 
Mr.  Alden.  "I  had  a  conversation  on  this 
same  point  with  the  editor  of  the  Times 
Saturday  Review,  and  he  asked  me  whether 
I  thought  it  wise  for  him  to  include  the  re- 
ports of  these  trials  in  his  advertising  col- 
umn, 'About  Authors :  What  Some  of  Them 
are  Saying,  Writing  and  Planning!'  He 
actually  seemed  in  doubt,  though,  as  to  the 
authenticity  of  the  reports." 

"Oh,  my!  I  wish  my  sister  were  here!" 
sighed  R.  W.  "She  always  reads  'Who's 
Who  in  America  and  England,'  so  she'd  set 
me  straight  on  all  these  confusing  literary 
matters." 

"You  must  remember,  though,"  cautioned 
Herford,  "all  is  not  gold  that  Gilders." 

"True,"  said  Brownell,  "yet  I  just  re- 
ceived this  afternoon  from  my  aesthetic 
friend,  Comte  de  Montesquieu,  a  copy  of 
some  delicate  little  verses  which,  he  in- 
formed me,  are  to  appear  next  month  in  the 
magazine  to  whose  directrice  they  were  ad- 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        254 

dressed.     If  you  will   allow  me,   I'll   read 
the  lines  to  you.     Ahem ! 

"  <  Petite  amie, 
Je  vous  dis 

Que  vous  regnez  dans  man  cceur. 
Vous  etes  sijolie, 
P'tite  amie, 
Je  crois  que  fen  meurs.'  " 

Poetry  hath  charms  to  soothe  the  savage 
breast,  and  when  the  reader's  voice  had 
ceased  even  Herford  was  silent. 

"How  beautiful!"  murmured  R.  W.  "I 
should  so  have  liked  to  publish  it  in  our  de- 
partment in  Lighter  Vein,  but  we  never 
publish  any  German  in  that  department." 

"To  continue,"  said  the  decuman  Cen- 
turion, in  a  loud  tone,  "as  I  was  saying,  al- 
though my  colleague  and  myself  disapprove 
of  the  methods  of  the  Literary  Emergency 
Court,  yet  we  are  strongly  in  favor  of  the 
underlying  idea.  Something  will  have  to 
be  done  to  stem  the  current  of  literature  in 
this  country,  or  it  will  end  by  becoming  a 
picture  of  life.  This  tendency  to  present 
things  as  they  really  are,  I  am  sorry  to  say, 
is  deeply  implanted  in  the  breasts  of  many 
of  our  otherwise  very  good  writers.  In- 


OTHERWISE  MEN  255 

deed,  it  is  seldom,  since  the  death  of  E.  P. 
Roe,  that  we  find  a  writer  thoroughly  suited 
to  the  peculiar  requirements  of  the  Cen- 
tury. And  I  assume  it  is  the  same  with 
you,  Mr.  Bok?" 

''Precisely,  sir — only  more  so." 
"Why,  gentlemen,"  continued  the  speaker, 
"would  you  believe  it,  we  once  commis- 
sioned one  of  our  most  approved  writers 
to  give  us  an  article  on  Francois  Villon,  and 
he  actually  said  in  his  article  that  Villon 
spent  many  of  his  evenings  drinking  in  the 
Paris  cabarets  with  ladies  to  whom  he  had 
never  been  introduced.  And  when  we 
called  him  to  account,  he  excused  himself 
by  saying  it  was  true!  As  though  truth 
had  anything  to  do  with  it!  This  instance 
will  show  you  the  malign  tendency  of  the 
writers  of  today.  We  are  the  ones  to  check 
them.  My  colleague  and  myself,  as  you 
doubtless  are  aware,  always  carefully  avoid 
all  approach  to  nature,  and  the  Century  is 
the  richest  periodical  in  the  world.  I  have 
given  you  the  major  and  the  minor  premise, 
draw  the  conclusion  for  yourselves.  We 
have  just  written  a  little  sonnet  together, 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        256 

'As  One  Who  Does  Not,'  and  I  should  be 
happy  to  read  it  aloud  to  you  free  of 
charge " 

For  a  few  moments  it  looked  as  though 
the  meeting  were  going  to  come  to  a  sud- 
den end  through  the  defection  of  the  audi- 
ence ;  but  finally  the  speaker  was  persuaded 
not  to  carry  out  his  threat,  and  quiet  was  re- 
stored. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  folding  the  sonnet 
and  putting  it  in  his  pocket,  "it's  your  loss, 
not  mine.  But  don't  think  you  can  escape 

for  good  and  all sooner  or  later  you'll 

see  it  in  the  Century.  But  it  was  not  prima- 
rily for  the  purpose  of  reading  our  sonnet 
to  you — important  as  that  event  would  be — 
that  I  arose.  I  have  a  plan  to  propose  for 
superseding  the  defunct  Literary  Emer- 
gency Court  which  I  think  will  greatly  aid 
us  in  reaching  the  end  we  all  have  in  view — 
that,  namely,  of  the  emasculation  of  litera- 
ture. First  of  all,  let  us  divorce  in  our 
minds  literature  and  business " 

"It  can't  be  done,"  said  Howells,  earn- 
estly. 

"Well,  I  know  it  is  hard,    especially    in 


OTHERWISE  MEN  257 


Franklin  Square,  but,  still,  we  must  try. 
Now,  my  plan  is  that  we,  who  are  the 
guardians  of  letters,  band  ourselves  to- 
gether for  its  eff eminization,  and  that  to  this 
end  each  one  of  us  in  turn  states  his  theory 
of  what  literature  should  be,  so  that  we  may 
have  a  basis  on  which  to  work.  You  have 
heard  our  theory:  when  writing  of  rillons, 
never  let  them  speak  to  a  lady  unintro- 
duced.  I  should  be  glad  to  hear  what  the 
others  present  think." 

"Mr.  Howells,"  said  Mark  Twain,  when 
the  speaker  had  resumed  his  seat,  "y°u  have 
heard  the  proposition  just  made  and  the 
trenchant  definition  of  literature.  How 
would  your  definition  run?" 

"How  should  I  define  literature?  Well, 
I  think  I  should  define  the  highest  order  of 
fiction,  as  my  own,  somewhat  in  this  man- 
ner: an  insistence  upon  the  unessential  un- 
til the  meeting  of  extremes.  How  does 
that  strike  you?" 

"Excellent,  Mr.  Howells.  You  couldn't 
have  described  your  own  writings  better 
had  you  been  writing  for  posterity.  And 
now,  Mr.  Bok." 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        258 

"In  all  languages  of  which  I  have  knowl- 
edge," said  the  gentleman  addressed,  "liter- 
ature is  of  the  feminine  gender — la  littcra- 
ture,  die  Litcratur,  la  lettcratura,  and  so  on.  It 
is  also  feminine  in  Philadelphia.  More- 
over, unlike  the  W.  C.  T.  U.,  no  men  are 
ever  admitted.  Can  you  beat  that  exposi- 
tion?" 

"No,  Mr.  Bok,  I'll  admit  we  can't.  It's 
the  recipe  of  the  old  Godcy's  Lady's  Book 
brought  up  to  date.  And  you,  Mr  Alden, 
what  is  your  definition?" 

"When  I  was  a  boy  up  in  Vermont,"  was 
the  seemingly  disconnected  reply,  "I  had 
much  time  for  thinking  out  definitions. 
Among  others,  I  formulated  at  that  time  my 
definition  of  literature  and  wrote  it  down. 
Unfortunately  it's  at  the  office  of  the  maga- 
zine, or  I  should  read  it  to  you.  I  always 
read  it  every  morning,  so  as  to  keep  it  fresh 
in  mind.  For  the  moment  I  can't  recall  it, 
but  of  one  thing  you  may  rest  assured :  I 
haven't  changed  it  one  iota  from  that  day  to 
this." 

"Humph!"  said  Mark  Twain,  "side-lights 


OTHERWISE  MEN  259 


on  the  progress  of  American  literature. 
Herford,  haven't  you  any  theories?" 

"No,  not  exactly.  I've  got  a  couple  of 
definitions  here  in  rhyme,  though,  that 
might  pass  as  theories." 

"Well,  let's  have  'em.  Anything  for 
variety." 

"This  is  the  definition  of  a  poet,"  said 
Herford,  reading  from  the  only  cuff  he 
had  on: 

"  '  A  poet's  fit  non  nascitur, 
Which    shows   he's    epileptic; 

And  getting  meagre  nurriture, 

He's  usually  dyspeptic. 
P.  S.  —  That  is,  unless  he  be,  like  you, 

An  editor  and  poet,  too." 

The  last  words  were  addressed  directly  to 
R.  U.,  whose  countenance  never  for  a  mo- 
ment lost  the  preternaturally  solemn  ex- 
pression which  it  assumed  at  all  mention  of 
poetry. 

"That's  pretty  good,  Herford.  Have  you 
any  more?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  one  on  a  critic,  if  I  could 
only  remember  where  I  wrote  it.  Oh,  yes, 
it's  on  my  shirt!" 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        260 


Thereupon  Herford  unbuttoned  his  waist- 
coat and  read  the  following  lines,  which 
were  written  diagonally  across  the  bosom 
of  his  shirt: 

"  A  critic  is  a  man  who  can't 

Create  himself,  and  hence 
He  says  that  other  people  sha'n't  — 

He's  not  without  some  sense. 
P.  S.  —  Exceptions  to  line  four  must  be, 
Of  course,  the  present  company." 

"Well,  Herford,"  said  Mark  Twain  ap- 
provingly, "I  consider  that  you  have  con- 
tributed more  than  any  one  else  toward 
clearing  up  the  subject.  Indeed,  I  think, 
gentlemen,  we  may  safely  say  that  at  last 
we  have  a  working  formula  to  guide  our  as- 
sociation in  its  arduous  task.  Further,  we 
have  learned  one  thing,  at  least,  from  the 
proceedings  of  the  Literary  Emergency 
Court,  barren  as  they  have  been  in  the 
main,  and  that  is  that  we  can  hope  to  ac- 
complish little  by  public  and  official  action. 
Our  true  line  lies  in  private  endeavour. 
Therefore,  let  us  all  and  sundry  return  to 
our  desks,  editorial  or  otherwise,  and  con- 


OTHERWISE  MEN  261 

tinue  our  labours  as  heretofore.  Herford 
and  I,  you  may  rest  assured,  will  do  our 
share ;  and  to  judge  from  the  past,  I  feel 
confident  we  may  safely  count  on  your  co- 
operation. La  littcraturc,  may  it  never,  even 
for  an  instant,  become  Ic  littcraturc!  The 
meeting  is  at  an  end,  gentlemen.  Surely, 
there  remains  nothing  unsaid." 

Thereupon  good-nights  were  exchanged, 
and  congratulations  that  the  guillotine  had 
ceased  operations,  and  the  six  editors 
turned  to  leave  the  room.  As  Bok  reached 
the  door  he  narrowly  missed  collision  with 
a  messenger  who  was  hurrying  in  with  a 
letter. 

"The  presiding  judge  of  the  Literary 
Emergency  Court?"  inquired  the  boy  of 
Mark  Twain. 

"That  was  my  title.     Give  me  the  letter." 

Opening  it,  he  ran  his  eyes  across  the 
paper,  and  then,  with  a  smile,  he  handed  it 
to  me.  This  is  what  I  read : 

"If  you  insist  on  arresting  me,  I  can  be 
found  any  day  before  five  P.  M.  at  Columbia 
University,  or  evenings  at  home.  Also  on 


THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE        262 

Saturdays  at  the  offices  of  The  Bookzvorm. 
Reply  by  messenger.     H.  T.  P. 

"P.  S. — I  think  I  can  inform  you  of  the 
critical  hiding-place  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Breeches." 


Some  Advance  Opinions  of 

THE  LITERARY  GUILLOTINE 

,-._.  .^-.  _  -£-.—:!:--  -.1.       ^  __  -l--.-2.~L       ^       ^.   -••!.  .--  ^.  .    .1.  .  -.1.       .1       .1.—  -^    -    ^.       . 

"  Never  flags."  —  Chicago  Post. 
"  Clever  Satire."—  7V.  F. 


"Very  well  done,  and  full  of  good  things."- 

Re  publican. 


CHE  pages  in  "The  Literary  Guillotine"  en- 
titled "Three  of  a  Kind,"  dealing  with  Dr. 
Van  Dyke,  called  forth  the  following  words  of 
praise  from   DR.  WEIR   MITCHELL,  himself  a 
victim  of  "  The  Literary  Guillotine  "  :  — 

"  You  have  given  me  a  gay  evening,  and  I 
think  Van  Dyke  must  have  enjoyed  it  as  much 
as  any  of  the  —  as  yet  —  unguillotined." 


"  Whoever  the  author  of  this  series  may  be  he 
certainly  knows  what  he  is  writing  about,  and 
may  be  credited  with  producing  the  only  good 
literary  satire  of  this  generation." 

"  The  criticisms  are  keen  as  well  as  humorous." 


BOOKS  ON  MODERN  CRITICISM 


Rudyard  Kipling :  A  Criticism.  By  RICHARD  LE 
GALLIENNE.  With  Portrait  and  Bibliography  by 
John  Lane.  121110.  $1.25. 

The  Boston  Transcript :  "  He  is  generous  in  awarding  praise  where,  as 
it  seems  to  him,  praise  is  due,  lie  is  equally  frank  in  what  he  has  to  say  on 
the  other  side.  Discrimination  in  literary  judgment  is  not  so  common  a 
virtue  that  one  should  not  welcome  it  when  found,  and  in  these  pages  it  is 
surely  present.1' 

George   Meredith :    Some   Characteristics.      By 

RICHARD  LE  GALLIENNE.      With  Portrait  and  Bib- 
liography by  John  Lane.    12  mo.    $1.50  net. 
The  Wisconsin  State  Journal :   "  A  more  appreciative  and   intelligent 
presentation  of  the  work  of  George   Meredith,  with  its  thought,  aim  and 
style,  cannot  be  found  than  that  of  Richard  Le  Gallienne,  in  his  volume 
'  George  Meredith  :  Some  Characteristics.'  " 

The  Wessex  of  Thomas  Hardy.  By  BERTRAM  C. 
A.  WINDLE.  Profusely  illustrated  by  E.  H.  New. 
8vo.  $6.00  net.  Edition  de  Luxe.  Vellum.  $1.^0  nef. 

The  N.Y.  Times  :  <:  The  book  contains  a  good  deal  of  valuable  matter  of 
both  historic  and  antiquarian  interest,  and  with  the  additional  charm  of 
illustrations  which  really  illustrate,  can  hardly  fail  to  remain  for  all  time  the 
authority  on  Wessex  and  the  Hardy  novels." 

The  Nation  :  "  The  topography  of  Mr.  Hardy's  novels  has  long  been  a 
favorite  theme.  The  whole  of  Southern  England  has  fallen  under  his  spell. 
The  book  is  one  that  will  delight  all  antiquarians,  and  especially  those  who 
love  rural  England  and  the  novels  of  Thomas  Hardy." 

The  Art  of  Thomas  Hardy.  By  LIONEL  JOHNSON. 
With  Portrait  and  Bibliography.  i2ino.  $1.50  net. 


BOOKS  OF  MODERN  CRITICISM 


Men  and  Letters  :  Essays  in  Literary  Subjects.  By 
HERBERT  PAUL.  i2ino.  $1.50  net.  Fourth  Edition, 

The  N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser:  "A  rather  remarkable  book.  Mr. 
Paul  is  a  master  of  proportion  and  directness.  He  indulges  in  no  subter- 
fuges. His  powers,  and  they  are  real  powers,  are  directed  only  toward  the 
essentials.  A  singularly  quick  and  enlivening  style.  In  general,  Mr.  Paul's 
work  as  an  essayist  is  extremely  satisfying.  There  is  nothing  ephemeral  or 
superficial  about  it.  He  is  primarily  a  clear  and  sufficiently  deep  thinker, 
and  the  result  of  his  work  is  never  tiring  to  the  reader  who  delights  in 
thoughtful  matter  well  expressed." 

Poets  of  the  Younger  Generation.  By  WILLIAM 
ARCHER,  with  33  full-page  portraits  by  Robert  Bry- 
den.  8vo.  $6.00  net. 

The  Chicago  Chronicle  :  "  The  book  is  not  only  worth  reading,  but  is 
well  worthy  of  study  for  its  intelligent  and  sympathetic  criticism  as  well  as 
for  the  information  given  regarding  our  younger  poets." 

The  London  Daily  Chronicle :  "  In  short,  the  volume  is  a  treasure- 
house  of  well-argued  criticism,  no  less  than  a  collection  of  much  admirable 
and  some  little-known  poetry.  ...  A  book  to  interest  and  profit  every  one 
who  has  any  taste  for  the  study  of  poetry  and  poetic  methods." 

The  Early  Prose  Writings  of  James  Russell 
Lowell.  With  a  Prefatory  Note  by  Edward  Everett 
Hale  of  Boston,  and  an  Introduction  by  Walter 
Littlefield.  With  Portrait  of  the  Author.  i2mo. 

$1.20  net. 

The  N.  Y.  Evening  Post :  ''  Dr.  Hale's  sanction  would  disarm  criticism, 
even  if  Mr.  Walter  Littlefield  had  not  made  graceful  and  sufficient  editorial 
apology.  The  best  is  the  exuberant  but  wholly  charming  essay  on  song- 
writing."' 

The  Providence  Sunday  Journal :  "  Most  decidedly  we  could  not  have 
afforded  to  lose  in  oblivion  these  writings  of  Lowell's  youth  ;  they  are  in  no 
sense  unworthy  of  him  or  his  genius." 

Studies  in  Early  Victorian  Literature.  By  FRED- 
ERIC HARRISON.  121110.  $1.50. 


Bliss 

Carman 


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Whecle 


Date  Due 


Mrs. 

"Eddy 


ihellei 


X 


OLIVER 


Richard 

Harding 

Davis 


Brandcr 
Matthews 


Booth 
Tarkington 


Cyrus 

Townsend 

Brady 


